


trips around the sun

by AstronomicalFog



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dev and Niall have personalities because Baz needs friends, Family Fluff, Homophobia, I just really wanted to see Simon with Baz's family in Wayward Son, I made up names for Baz's other siblings, M/M, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Simon and Baz have a good relationship with healthy communication, take that Wayward Son, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstronomicalFog/pseuds/AstronomicalFog
Summary: "I’m glad not to have to deal with him yet, but I’m also afraid that our entire visit will be like this--me walking on eggshells until some sort of confrontation happens with Mr. Grimm. And even afterwards, having no idea how to talk to Baz’s stepmum or his siblings.But I can do it. I will do it. For Baz. Because he loves them and I love him, and that’s worth a weekend of pretending to get along with his family."Or, 5 times the Grimm-Pitch family fell in love with Simon Snow + 1 time he did the same
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 58
Kudos: 255





	trips around the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for homophobia: Baz's dad is a bit of an asshole for most of this, but it really isn't shown in detail until the last part. He does apologize (because we all deserve a happy ending), but don't read that part if you think it's going to trigger you! (The rest of it is pure fluff). There's also a bit in part 2 where Simon basically explains being gay to Mordelia which I don't _think_ should be triggering, but I do hope I did it justice to what that's actually like. Finally, there's a brief mention of the fact that Baz canonically had suicidal thoughts when he was younger.
> 
> Just so you all know, 99 percent of this was written before I read _Wayward Son_, so no spoilers. Also a note on Mathias' name: I'm not sure which pronunciation is right, so in my head I pronounce it as "Ma-tie-as", but feel free to pronounce it however you prefer! (This is literally so self-indulgent. I just wanted to see Simon bonding with Baz's family.) Also, not Brit-picked, so feel free to point out anything I got wrong. Enjoy!

_I. Baz Grimm-Pitch_

* * *

**BAZ**

* * *

I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with Simon Snow.

Well, not exactly. That was just when I realised what was going on. It actually happened before that. A couple of years before that, most likely. Maybe even all the way back at the beginning.

I was eighteen years old when Simon Snow fell in love with me.

Or maybe nineteen. He says he can’t pick the actual _date_ which he realised. (Because he’s a moron who still spends far too much time _not_ thinking about things.) But _he’s_ the one who kissed _me_ in the woods and the fire and that definitely happened because he realised _something_, so I like to say that it was then. It’s more dramatically poetic, that way.

I am nineteen years old when I realise that my life can be like _this_.

“Baz, what’re you thinkin’ about?”

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa. In my arms, to be precise. We’re in the sitting room of his and Penelope Bunce’s flat. It’s just the two of us, cuddling and half-watching telly. (_The Great British Bake-Off_. Snow likes it. He’s really taken up cooking in the past few months.) (He says his therapist recommended it, but I think it’s just an excuse to eat whatever food he wants.)

He’s propped his head up on my chest, and his ordinary blue eyes are narrowed at me. It’s the look he always gives me when he’s accusing me of plotting, and I try not to smile.

“You,” I answer. Because it’s true. (It’s always true.) And because I know it’ll make him blush.

It does. He ducks his head down into my chest. The brush of his curls against my shirt sends waves of warmth through my entire body. I smile, only because he isn’t looking.

He’s still wonderful and golden and as beautiful as he’s ever been. Only now, in addition to being all of that, he’s _mine._

I think fifteen-year-old me would die if he could see this. Or eleven-year-old me, even. Because that was when I fell in love with him, but I didn’t know what that meant, I think, until now.

“And us,” I add, because I actually have a point with all of this. “At Watford.”

He rewards my efforts with a _hmm_ and lifts his head from my sternum to the crook of my neck, where it was before. I can feel the puffs of his breath against my skin, and it’s so _real_ that I might cry.

I never once thought I’d get this. Both of us alive. No war. And him, here in my arms in a little fourth-storey flat in central London.

I never once imagined that love could be like this. Back at Watford, it was all dramatic-but-silent sacrifices and stealing glimpses of him from across the room because I wasn’t allowed to look. It was resigning myself to a short, bitterly unpleasant life so that he could have a good one.

Now it’s different. _Better._ Now it’s staring at him as much as I want because _I’m allowed_ and waking up in his arms and afternoons like this, just cuddled on the sofa. It’s _ordinary_ and we’re just two boys and I can’t think of anything in the world that could be more perfect.

“I’m sorry,” Snow says, starling me from my thoughts. His head is still on my shoulder. “For everything that happened at Watford.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I tighten my arms around his back.

I feel him shake his head. “But I _do._ If I hadn’t been so… If I’d realised that the Mage was… Then we could’ve had this. We wouldn’t have needed to be enemies.”

My heart breaks for him. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. My heart breaks for him every day for everything he’s lost and everything he never should have needed to live up to.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, love. My family was just as much an influence as the Mage. You were his _heir_. They would have pushed me against you anyway.”

“But they never really did in the first place. You fell in love with me, didn’t you?”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. I loved him, and I know I’d love him regardless of the circumstances. No matter our story or who we were to each other, I’ll always love him.

I used to torture myself that way. Especially during fifth year and the summer after it, I’d drive myself crazy imagining a world where the two of us weren’t fated to be enemies. Wondering what would be different. If anything even would be.

I’d be able to escape for a little while, but in the end it would never bring anything but pain. Simon Snow is perfect and, I was convinced, utterly unattainable.

Now…

Now. It’s been a year, almost, since I graduated Watford and our new lives began. Simon is finally starting to heal from everything that happened. I can’t let him torture himself with hypotheticals, because it would drive him crazy the way it did me and, most likely, start this whole circle of guilt all over again.

And, most importantly, we don’t _need_ to. It isn’t worth it anymore. Because our path to get here might not have been smooth, but it still _led here_. Here, where the only boy I’ve ever wanted _loves me back_.

I’d do anything if I knew it would mean I end up here.

“I did,” I whisper into the top of his hair. “But I would, no matter what. It’s impossible not to love you, Simon Snow.”

He stretches up and kisses me. Like every time before, the world stops spinning.

“It’s impossible not to love _you_, Baz Pitch,” he grins against my mouth. My heart skips a beat. “I think I always did. I was _obsessed _with you.”

I laugh. It does not sound, even in the slightest bit, like I’m blinking back tears.

“So was I,” I say. “It drove me crazy. _You_ drove me crazy. I just wanted to kiss you and be done with it.”

Snow smiles with half his mouth. “I would have killed you, I think. If you’d tried it.”

I can’t tell him that I was counting on it. That that was a time where I thought being able to whisper _I love you_ to Simon Snow as he killed me was my version of a happy ending.

It must show on my face anyway. His instantly falls. Part of me is annoyed, because my emotionless façade doesn’t work on him anymore. But most of me is thrilled, because he’s the first person who’s ever been able to read me well enough to see past it, and I’m glad that of all people, it could be him.

_“Baz_. You…?”

I just nod. I don’t think that either of us could bear to finish that sentence.

There’s silence for a few moments. And then, all at once, he’s pulling away enough to move his arms from my upper back to my neck, and then he’s kissing me again. It’s hot and fierce and feels like a fight. But as soon as I start trying to fight back, he pulls away, and then he’s kissing my cheeks and my jaw and my neck and I have to blink away tears again.

It’s something that I’ve dealt with for years--as soon as my mother died and I didn’t, really--but a lot of it was because of him. Having him isn’t the miraculous cure-all that I expected it would be. There are still bad days that not even he and his love can stop. But it is better.

We’re both fallen supervillains, in a way. We antagonised each other and fought each other and then we saved each other and the World of Mages. We _match_.

(_So _much better.)

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m _so_ sorry, darling. I wish I had known…”

I try to ignore the way my heart skips a beat when he calls me _darling_. (It always has, and it always will.) His head is back in the crook of my neck, so I raise a hand and run it through his curls.

“You couldn’t have. No one knew. I tried as hard as I could to hide it.”

“But that doesn’t make it _better!”_ He pulls away fully and sits up facing me. I mourn the loss of his warmth, tuck a leg up on the sofa, and lean forward.

He’s avoiding my gaze and his hands are twitching in his lap like he’s itching to run them through his hair. I reach out and take them, and that draws his eyes to me.

“You shouldn’t’ve _had_ to hide it! Someone should’ve been able to _see_, or-or…”

“Simon--”

“--or you shouldn’t’ve needed to ignore it _in the first place!”_

Snow is blushing and his grip is tight and I feel like we’re on the precipice of something here, but I’m not sure what.

“I-I didn’t hide it. Not exactly. My father didn’t try to convince me to enact revenge for my mother the way Fiona did, because he _knew._ He only wanted for me to play my part in the Families’ plan because I believed in that, too.”

“But _Baz!_ You shouldn’t have _had_ a role in the Families’ plan! You were _eleven!”_

I blink at him several times. My hands slowly release his, and they drop back to his lap. He gives a frustrated exhale. He’s gotten better at thinking in the year since everything, but this is still startlingly introspective for someone who still doesn’t believe me when I try to convince him that the Mage was an awful mentor.

Something of my frustration must show on my face. He looks away and finally gives in to the desire to run a hand through his hair. “I-I was telling my therapist all the things you say, about the Mage and how he manipulated me, and she agreed with you.”

_Because I’m right._ It’s satisfying, but not an explanation.

“S-she started telling me some of the effects that something like that can have… and-and they sounded like _you_, Baz.”

I freeze. My first instinct is to snarl in his face. My second instinct is to deny, because of course it isn’t true. But this is _Simon_, so I manage to do neither.

He still looks nervous. But he’s actually _looking_ at me, which definitely means _something_. “So, I-I. I told her about you. About how you were my enemy and we were both preparing for the day when we’d have to kill each other. And about the vampires and your mother and your Aunt Fiona. And the Old Families’ plan. A-and she agreed with me.”

I try to scoot back on the sofa to get away from him, but there isn’t any more room. He looks like he anticipated something like that, for he reaches out and grabs my hands again. I yank them away, but the hurt look on his face is enough to immediately make me feel guilty.

Not guilty enough to let him close again. I’d like to say that he’s lying, but my Simon is the worst liar I’ve ever seen. And I’d like to say that his therapist doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but with how much she’s helped him in the last year, I can’t.

They believe that my family manipulated and used me the same way as _the Mage_ used Snow. The Mage, who didn’t love him and made him go to a _home_ every summer. The Mage, who always treated him like a _bomb_, like he wasn’t valuable as a person on his own.

I was allowed to sit in on strategy meetings. They asked me questions about what I’d learned about Snow from years as his roommate. I have a father and a stepmother and siblings and a _family_. They ignore my vampirism and my queerness, but that doesn’t mean they don’t _know _me. And they wouldn’t kick me out. They still love me.

“Baz,” Snow says. “They won’t talk about how you’re a vampire or how you’re gay. And you’ve spent your entire life _feeling guilty_ about the fact that your mother saved you when you were _five_. That isn’t _healthy.”_

_Because anything about either of our lives is a good example of “healthy”, _I don’t say. _You were abandoned with your name written on your arm, and the only reason we got together is because you kissed me when I was trying to kill myself in the middle of a burning forest._

He’s smiling a bit ironically, so I think his thought process is something similar. He makes a point to catch my eye, though, and then his smile turns sweet and genuine. It’s the one I fell in love with, and I’m still furious with him. But.

“You know your family _loves _you, darling. They invited us to Christmas last year, and even though it was awful, they’re _making the effort.”_

Damn him. With the _darling_ and the fact that he’s soothed my biggest insecurity. Christmas last year was an absolute nightmare. Snow and I ended up leaving early. And that was only _after_ I’d gotten into what was practically a shouting match with my father over dinner. There was a lot of anger and a lot of tears, but I’ll never forget the way Simon tried to stand up for me. And I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he did.

After we’d gotten back to London, though, a few days into the new year, I got a call from Daphne. She apologised to me and to Snow, and assured us that we were welcome back whenever we want.

My father didn’t speak with us, so I don’t think that he agrees with her on this. But my stepmother can be fierce when she wants to be. I sense that this is one of the situations where she’ll be firmly in charge, and Father can just shut up and deal if he doesn’t like it. The image makes me smile. By the middle of the call, I was hoping that Snow and I could take her up on her offer, one day.

At the end, Daphne put my oldest half-sibling, Mordelia, on the phone as a method to try and guilt us. She’s a little demon, but she spent all of Christmas glaring at Simon. I didn’t think her attempts would be successful, so I think I was as stunned as anyone else when they were. Snow told her _yes_ with a (terrible) smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. Like he knew something I didn’t.

But it made me happy. He _may_ be right with the whole ignoring-my-vampirism thing, and he and my family may have always been enemies, but that’s just all the more alluring, isn’t it? I’ve always known Simon Snow to be fiercely defensive of the things he loves, but I never imagined that _I _would be one of those things.

I’d been glaring at him (I think), but now I give it up. I sigh, and reach back out for his hands. He smiles softly and lets me take them. When he lifts them to his mouth to kiss the backs of my knuckles, I slide down on the sofa and pull him back against me. He grins, smug, and lays his head on my chest.

Our episode of _The Great British Bake-Off_ is long over by now, and displaying the Netflix home screen, so I reach forward and switch off the telly. Then my hand finds its way into Snow’s hair, and he gives a pleased hum and smiles against my skin.

I never thought that I’d have him. (I never thought I’d be enough to deserve him.) And even if I _did_ have him, I never could have imagined this. Fighting--yes. An erotic gropefest--more than I’d like to admit. But not _this_.

Lying on the sofa and talking about our feelings, and him agreeing to spend more time with my family in the future. Despite the fact that they’ve always hated him and spent most of his two visits being either passive-aggressive or outright hostile.

I’m glad for it. I can’t even _begin_ to express how glad I am. For him, and also for _this_. That he’s trying, despite everything. Being selfless and loving me as fully and determinedly as he does anything.

He calls himself my terrible boyfriend, but I can’t think of anyone who could possibly be better than him. (Not for me, anyway.)

I suppose I can think of a way to say how glad I am.

“Simon Snow, I love you.”

_II. Mordelia Grimm_

* * *

**SIMON**

* * *

It’s been almost a year and a half since the day I lost my magic. Since then, everything I poured into the Humdrum has started gradually filling the holes I left behind every time I went off. Professor Bunce says that the repairs seem to be progressing oppositely chronological--the most recent holes are the ones filling up first. I tore dozens the day I defeated the Humdrum, and those took an especially long time to fill. But now that they finally have, the rate seems to be speeding up.

Penelope’s dad seems hopeful for the future of the World of Mages. I still miss my magic, but I’m trying to be, too.

This alleged hope--_alleged_ since I still don’t know if it’s working--is the only explanation I can think of for what’s happening right now.

A couple of days ago, the magic returned to the hole I tore over Hampshire. Baz got a call from his stepmum with the news the day before yesterday. She sounded happier than I’ve ever heard her--not that it’s much of a contest--and insisted that we come visit to celebrate. _Both _of us.

At the new year, she apologised to me when she called Baz. He seemed so relieved when she did, and now that I know what to look for, it’s glaringly obvious how much he loves his family. And if I want to be a boyfriend that’s anything resembling good (and I do--sometimes I’m surprised by how much), I can’t be the thing that’s keeping him from them. So, when Mrs. Grimm had Baz’s sister Mordelia ask if we would come visit again, I said yes.

I’m regretting it now.

The first Christmas I ever spent with Baz and his family, I was too focused on Nicodemus and Baz’s mother to have much time to be nervous. Last Christmas was Baz and I’s one-year anniversary, but still only the second time I’d ever been around all of his family. He’d reassured me and walked me through anything that had any likeliness of happening and I was probably as prepared as I ever could have been. But I have never been more terrified in my life as I was that day, walking into his family’s hunting lodge and knowing that it was my fault they were there.

I’d hoped I wouldn’t be nervous today. That since last time was pretty much the worst thing I could imagine, everything else would seem manageable in comparison. But I guess I should have known that it wouldn’t work out like that. I don’t think I’m _quite _as nervous as I was last time, but it is pretty close.

I am trying to keep this all hidden from Baz, though. Normally, he’s able to see through me in a second when I’m trying to lie. But we’re in the car now, and he’s focusing more on driving than on me. And it’s easy enough to distract myself. We’re driving down the M3 and the radio is on and every so often, Baz looks away from the road for long enough to catch my eye and beam around the words he’s singing. I don’t even have to try and fake a smile then--seeing his is enough.

The steady movement of the car is enough to make me sleepy. Eventually, it’s enough to blot out my nervousness. I lean my head against the passenger window and fall asleep with a smile on my face and Baz’s off-key singing in my ear.

I wake again to the car shutting off. For a moment, I’m disoriented. It comes flooding back along with my nerves when I see we’re parked on the drive outside the Pitch manor. Immediately I try to hide it, because Baz is looking now. I offer him a smile, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it because of the way his eyes narrow. Before he can say anything, I push open my door and get out.

He beats me to opening the boot and hands me my overnight bag. I pull a face, but he’s still smug as he closes the boot and locks the car. As we start up the drive to the front door, he grabs my hand. It relaxes me more than I thought it would. This is familiar--holding hands with Baz.

With him, here by my side, I can almost believe that everything will be okay.

Baz’s nanny, Vera, answers the door for us. She smiles as she invites us in, and I’m actually able to smile back. Until she says she’ll go get Mr. Grimm.

I don’t know if I can ever forgive Mr. Grimm for the things he said to Baz last Christmas. And the things he said _about_ Baz, right in front of him like he wasn’t even there. Mrs. Grimm apologised to us afterwards, but I know that her husband doesn’t share her sentiments. If he had his way, I’m sure I would never be allowed back here. If it didn’t mean forcing Baz to choose, I’d be okay with that. My only strategy for this weekend is to try and avoid him as much as I can.

My grip on Baz’s hand tightens, but when Vera comes back, it isn’t with Mr. Grimm. Instead, it’s Mrs. Grimm and Mordelia, and they’re both smiling at us. Or, at Baz rather, but it’s still better than glaring.

Mordelia shrieks and jumps at her brother, and Baz drops both his bag and my hand to catch her. He has a wide, genuine smile on his face, and even after a year and a half, it’s still a bit of a strange sight to see. Every time I do, it makes my insides go all fluttery.

I glance briefly up and see that Mrs. Grimm has a smile that looks similar. Then she catches my eye, and it doesn’t slip as she looks at me.

That’s more shocking than it should be, probably. I know she said she’d make an effort and I really have no reason to mistrust her, but given everything that happened last time, I’m not sure that… if I can really…

I’m caught off guard when I feel Mordelia’s little arms around my waist. I stagger back a step, bringing her with me, and it’s a welcome distraction.

Until I look down, that is, and see her staring up at me. She’s wearing a suspicious expression that looks so much like Baz’s that I’m sure she’s practised it in the mirror. I try to smile reassuringly, but I’m sure it comes out more nervous than anything.

But, I mean, she is hugging me. Surely that means something.

As if she heard my thoughts, she instantly lets go. Maybe her mother told her to, or something.

Mrs. Grimm crosses the hall to hug Baz. When they separate, she gives him a kiss on the forehead and says, “Come on in, you two. You can go put your bags in Basilton’s room, if you’d like.”

Baz nods, and then he’s leading me down the hallways and up to his bedroom. I vaguely remember it from the first time I was here. With every step we take, I’m afraid of bumping into Mr. Grimm, but we make it up without incident. Baz and I drop our bags at the end of his bed, and then he turns to me. He does a much better job of looking reassuring than I could.

Baz looks like he wants to say something, but every reassurance he could offer, he already has at one point. I promised him that I would do this, and now it’s time to buck up and _do_ it.

He grabs my hand again as we make our way back downstairs. The only other time I’ve been here, when we were still at Watford, I didn’t pay any attention whatsoever to the house--or anything except for Baz, really. One of the only impressions I had was how ridiculously huge it is. I don’t know how Mordelia or Baz’s other siblings don’t get lost every time they try to go anywhere.

It feels even bigger now than it did then. I’m trying valiantly to remember the path as we head back the way we came, and have to consciously think about not crushing Baz’s hand. Eventually, we emerge into a sitting room off of the kitchen that I think I have been to before. By now, Baz’s other sisters and his brother have joined Mrs. Grimm and Mordelia, but Mr. Grimm still isn’t there. When I see that, I relax enough so that my grip on Baz’s hand is no longer so tight.

I’m glad not to have to deal with him yet, but I’m also afraid that our entire visit will be like this--me walking on eggshells until some sort of confrontation happens with Mr. Grimm. And even afterwards, having no idea how to talk to Baz’s stepmum or his siblings.

But I can do it. I _will_ do it. For Baz. Because he loves them and I love him, and that’s worth a weekend of pretending to get along with his family.

As soon as they see us, Baz and Mordelia’s other siblings all jump on him at once. He smiles and kneels on the floor, and soon enough his arms are full of little black-haired children.

Maybe everyone else will be content to spend all their time with Baz and ignore me.

Not even a second later, that hope is dashed to pieces. Mordelia Grimm had been standing behind her mother as her siblings attacked Baz, but now she’s caught my eye and is crossing the sitting room to me. My eyes dart to Baz, and then to Mrs. Grimm, but both of them are distracted and not available to rescue me.

Aside from Malcolm, I think that the Grimm that hates me the most is Mordelia. While he was all cool looks and an unreadable mask at Christmas, she was glares and anger that was only barely contained beneath the surface. Mr. Grimm, Baz, and I exploded at each other over Christmas dinner, but Mordelia didn’t confront me until the day before Baz and I drove back to London. Being related to Baz, I knew better than to assume that all of the children were sweet and innocent. But I’ve been around other eight-year-olds, and not even Priya Bunce has as strong opinions--or as much willingness to shout them--as Mordelia Grimm does.

Now, Mordelia is nine and only more intimidating. I have no idea why she would ask Baz to come visit if she knew it meant I would come along. Like her half-brother, she doesn’t seem the type to do anything that she doesn’t want to do.

She comes to a stop in front of me and crosses her arms over her chest. I try to smile. “Hi, Mordelia. It’s nice to see you.”

She raises both eyebrows (she can’t quite do one yet, and it’s very cute) and is silent for a long time. “Chosen One.”

Despite everything, it’s so very much like Baz that a genuine smile slips out. It’s abundantly clear--even after only meeting them all twice--that all four of Baz’s siblings adore him as much as he does them.

My smile seems to put Mordelia out. (Upset since I ruined her attempts to intimidate me--also like her brother.) _“What?”_

“Oh, nothing,” I smile mysteriously. “You just look like Baz. He used to do that, you know. Try and make me scared of him.”

I don’t think that was what she expected me to say. She seems to be thinking it over deeply. “Did it work?”

“Honestly?”

She nods.

I make a show of looking back and forth a few times, checking if anyone’s paying attention to us. (Baz is still hugging his little brother, but he’s watching us out of the corner of his eye.) Mordelia gets the idea and leans in.

“Yeah,” I say. “A little.”

Her eyes--a light grey, sort of like the way Baz’s get when he’s amused--widen. “But I thought Basil _liked_ you. Why would he try and make you _scared?”_

“I don’t think he liked me right at first. At first, he hated me. And then when he _stopped_ hating me, he still had to pretend like he did.”

“How come?”

It occurs to me--a little late--that maybe this is a topic that I shouldn’t be getting into with a nine-year-old. Especially _this_ nine-year-old. But I recognise the expression on her face now, and I know it’s too late to stop.

I try to be as vague as possible.

“I-w-well. Th-there were… people important to Baz who hated me. And since _they_ hated me, they would’ve been mad if Baz _didn’t_ hate me. So he had to pretend.”

With little success.

Mordelia nods, but I think it’s the nod that little kids do when an adult says something they want to pretend they understand. I suppose that’s something, at least.

I think she wants to ask more, but Baz choses that moment to let go of his little brother and stand up, and her attention is diverted. I really, really hope that he didn’t hear any of our conversation. I would _like_ for Baz to trust me around his siblings. And to be able to relax with his family _without_ having to worry about his boyfriend spilling repressed childhood secrets.

When he looks at me and smiles, I beam back and start to calm down. If he didn’t hear any of it, and Mordelia doesn’t go around repeating what I said, that was actually a fairly successful conversation. She didn’t shout at me once, and I even almost got a smile.

Until I hear footsteps in the hall outside the door, and I freeze back up in an instant. Baz sends me a worried look, and then actually removes one of his sisters from his leg in order to cross the room and hold my hand. Mordelia scampers back over to her mother.

I squeeze Baz’s hand for dear life, and a moment later, Malcolm Grimm steps into the sitting room.

He’s just as composed, sharp, and intimidating as ever. Instantly, his eyes find his son. Discreetly, I shuffle to the left, behind Baz.

Mr. Grimm smiles like a snake. “Basilton. Welcome home.” His eyes slide over to me. “And Mr. Snow. What a pleasure.”

Baz stands tall. My heart flutters when he shifts ever-so-slightly to the right and squeezes my hand twice. “Father.”

I think I manage to squeak out a “Sir.”

Mrs. Grimm steps forward, between Baz and Mr. Grimm. “Basilton was just telling me about London. His professors sound lovely.”

Mr. Grimm acknowledges his wife’s words with the flicker of an eyebrow. “Still living with Fiona?” he asks Baz, but his eyes are on me.

“Of course.” Baz’s voice is indignant. “Surely she would have informed you otherwise, if I hadn’t.”

Baz’s father gives a small huff of laughter and finally turns away. It feels like an actual, physical weight has been lifted off my chest. I squeeze Baz’s hand again.

Mr. Grimm begins speaking with Mrs. Grimm, but I barely hear them. Baz is watching his parents, so I step to the side a little to watch him. His eyebrows are drawn and I can barely see his eyes as they dart from his siblings to me. He’s sucking on his fangs.

Even though he gets to see his stepmum and his siblings--which he all seems fairly close to--this weekend is sure to be as difficult for him as it is for me. I want to comfort him, but what could I say?

I’ve always been shite with words. But right now, I think that just being here--with him, _for_ him--is enough.

“Basilton, may I have a few words with you in my office?”

“Of course, Father.”

And with one final squeeze to my hand and a fleeting look, he’s gone.

After a second, I relax at surviving my first interaction with Malcolm Grimm unscathed. After another, I remember that now I’m alone with Mrs. Grimm and all of the children.

I turn around and see that they’re all staring at me.

I think that Mrs. Grimm can sense my terror. She gives me a sympathetic smile. But immediately, I begin to doubt it when she speaks.

“I need to go help Vera with dinner. Mordelia, why don’t you and your sisters show Simon around the house?”

Mordelia looks like she wants to protest, and I really wish she would. Mordelia and I have had one civil conversation in our lives--I’d rather sit on the floor outside Mr. Grimm’s office and listen to him slander me to my boyfriend. But before she can speak up, Mrs. Grimm is gone.

I’m left alone with the children. Mordelia is glaring, but it isn’t at me yet. I quickly look past her, to where Baz’s younger sisters and brother are sitting on the sofa at the opposite end of the room. I remember that the girls are twins, and that one has a name that starts with _A_, and the other with _I. _But I don’t remember what either of the names _are_, and I don’t know the boy’s at all. He can’t be more than three years old--I don’t think I’ve ever really met him properly.

Considering the fact that this is the family with children named _Tyrannus Basilton_ and _Mordelia_, I know I’ll never be able to guess their names. But then my job gets much easier. One of the twins tilts her head at me and asks, “What’s your name?”

I smile, and cross the room to kneel down in front of her. I’ve done this with some of the shy babies in care, and it seems to help. Plus, Mordelia is intimidating, but these girls are younger. (And nicer.) And I’ve always liked helping out with the littluns.

“My name’s Simon,” I say. “What’s yours?”

She smiles, and it looks shockingly like Mrs. Grimm’s. “Audrey!”

_Audrey._ Well. That’s not too weird.

Audrey points to her sister, and then her brother. “An’ that’s Idina! An’ that’s Mathias!”

_Idina and Mathias._ Still not weirder, I suppose, than _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch_.

Mordelia huffs, and steps forward. But once she has all of our attention, her cross look fades. Wanting to be the centre of attention. I suppose that’s another thing she picked up from her brother. I hide a smile behind my hand.

“Our house’s boring,” she declares, “so wanna play football, Chosen One?”

I grin at the mention of football, but then Audrey says, “Who’s Chosen One?”

Mordelia huffs again, and rolls her eyes. _“Simon.”_

I don’t know how I didn’t see how very much she is like Baz.

“I would love to play football.” She grins triumphantly. _“If_ you call me _Simon.”_

She makes a show of thinking about it for a long time. “Wanna play football, _Simon?”_

I stand up. “Of course, Mordelia. I haven’t got a football kit, though.”

I expect a scoff at my general incompetence (it’s what Baz would’ve done, although he would’ve kissed me afterwards), but Mordelia just grabs my hand. “Basil has extras in his room. C’mon, c’mon!”

And then she drags me through the maze of hallways until we’re standing outside Baz’s door.

Mordelia quite literally shoves me through it. “Closet, _let’s go.”_

I shut the door and take a moment to breathe. It isn’t as hard as I feared. And then I’m crossing the room and opening Baz’s closet. He has a wardrobe in there, and it doesn’t take me long to find the clothes Mordelia was talking about.

One of Baz’s football shirts says _Pitch_ on the back. I trace my fingers over the letters, and then pull it over my head.

We end up playing two-a-side. Baz’s brother--_Mathias_\--is still far too young to join, so he watches from the shade. Audrey and Idina are too, probably, but they insisted, and football with two people horrifically mismatched in skill is terribly boring. (It’s why Baz still refuses to play me.) (Even though Mordelia isn’t too much worse than him and can still obliterate me.) We switch teams regularly and for a little while, I laugh and forget about everything I’m worried about.

It happens after the game ends. Vera noticed we were playing at some point earlier, and when we’re done, she comes out with water and Mrs. Grimm. I was afraid Baz’s stepmum was going to be angry with us for getting dirty before dinner, but she just smiles at me and takes the twins and Mathias inside for a bath. Mordelia and I are supposed to shower as soon as we’re done with our water.

I’m not as uncomfortable around her now. I think she likes me a little more since I was willing to play football with her. (From how it sounds, Baz only is sometimes.) And she seems to really like it, so we’d have that to talk about, if nothing else. But for now, both of us seem content to drink our water in silence.

Mordelia is mostly done with hers when she speaks. She says into her glass, “It’s my father, isn’t it?”

We hadn’t been talking about her father. “What is?”

“The one who hated you. The reason Basil had to pretend.”

Very slowly, I set my glass down on the table. A drop of condensation slips down the side.

I should probably lie to her. Mr. Grimm would probably be horrified if I told her the truth--if we got into the details of his expectations for his son. But I don’t want to. I’ve never liked lying, on top of being awful at it. Plus, Mr. Grimm already hates me. I don’t have much more to lose.

“Yes. It was.”

Mordelia nods like this doesn’t surprise her. I feel a flare of anger--just like parents shouldn’t pick favourites, I don’t think they should let any of their children see if they happen to dislike one. Even though I know Mr. Grimm would say he has _high expectations for Baz_, or some other bullshit.

“How come?”

This question is easy enough to answer. It’s the one that’ll come after it that isn’t.

“Because Baz and I were supposed to be enemies. I was the Mage’s Heir. He was supposed to kill me during the war. Your dad had a plan for Baz, and he’d be angry if Baz didn’t follow it.”

“But he didn’t. Because he _loves_ you.”

“Yeah. Your father didn’t like that Baz fell in love with me, because it meant he wouldn’t do what they wanted him to.”

“But everything’s over now. The Mage is dead and you’re not his heir and there wasn’t a war. So how come Father _still_ hates you?”

This is the question that comes after. I was hoping it would take her a little more time to get to it, but it seems that Mordelia is as sharp as Baz surely was at her age.

And I really, really don’t know how to answer it. I need to do it well, if I do. I can’t turn Baz’s little sister to hate him for something he can’t control.

“Because I’m a boy.”

Mordelia does her two-eyebrow raise. _“So?”_

“He’s upset that I’m a boy and I’m with Baz. He thinks Baz should be with a girl.”

Mordelia stares into her glass, contemplative. “Like Agatha Wellbelove.”

I’m not drinking, but I almost choke.

For her next words, Mordelia’s grey eyes find mine. “But Agatha Wellbelove ran away to America, and Basil wants to be with _you_, so why does it matter that you’re not a girl?”

_Excellent question_, I can’t help but think. But I can’t say it. I don’t agree with it at all, but Mordelia needs to understand why _on her own_. I can’t brainwash her, like Malcolm Grimm did to Baz.

“There’s some people,” I say, “that think that boys and girls are the only ones who can be together. They don’t think that boys can love boys or girls can love girls or people can love people who aren’t either, because they think it’s _wrong_. They think that people like that are broken and need to be fixed. Your brother is like that, and so am I. And we love each other, but people like your father don’t think so. Your father thinks that Baz could never be as happy with me as he could be with a girl, and that if he thinks he loves me, he’s lying to himself.”

Mordelia’s beginning to look upset. For a moment, I’m absolutely terrified, until she bursts out, “Basil’s _never_ liked anyone like he likes you! An’ there’s nothing _wrong _with him!”

I lean towards her, and try to look earnest. “I agree with you. I think that Baz is wonderful, and there’s nothing wrong with whomever he wants to love. He’s always been the way he is. But for years, your dad has pretended like he wasn’t. He’s ignored the fact that Baz’s gay--that he only likes boys--and tried to pretend that one day, he’d get a girlfriend. Until I came along, and he couldn’t pretend anymore.”

Again, Mordelia is silent for a while. Again, I get unspeakably nervous. I believe everything I say, but if she doesn’t, then I’ve probably just ruined everything.

And then she crosses her arms. Tilts her chin up so that she’s staring at me down her nose. Says, “Well, Father’s wrong. And he doesn’t need to pretend. There’s nothing _broken_ with Basil. I like him the way he is.”

She pauses. “An’ I like _you_, too. You should come back lots so we can play football and show my father that _we’re_ right.”

I pick up my glass and take a big gulp of water, to hide the way my eyes sting with tears. I think I’m genuinely about to cry. Mordelia grabs her own glass and smiles, confidently.

Just then, the sliding door opens, and Baz appears, leaning in the doorframe. He sees me and Mordelia, and one of his soft, genuine smiles appears on his face. “Everything all right?”

Mordelia sets down her glass, and then stands and runs over to him. She wraps her arms around his waist. He seems startled, and looks at me questioningly. I take another moment to frantically blink back tears, and then stand and walk over to the two of them.

When I get close enough to Baz for him to see my shirt--his shirt, with _Pitch_ on the back--his eyes go wide. His cheeks colour just the slightest bit, and he’s wearing the expression he always does before he attacks.

“Everything is wonderful, darling.” I step in and kiss him on the cheek. I actually think I mean it.

I look at him, and when he smiles, it’s like the sun.

_III. Audrey & Idina Grimm_

* * *

**BAZ**

* * *

It’s been a while since I spent time with Niall or Dev. A year and a half ago, there was everything that happened over Christmas with the Humdrum, and then when I returned to Watford for the second term of my eighth year, I visited the Bunces’ almost every weekend because I was worried about Simon. And then we all started at separate unis, and for the past six months, my time has been spent almost exclusively in the company of Simon Snow and Penelope Bunce.

At first, my friends were angry with me for _wasting their childhood_ by kissing Snow instead of killing him like we planned. But it’s been enough time that they’ve (mostly) grown used to the idea, and their desire for my exquisite company has outweighed any part of them that might still be miffed at me. And I, as the benevolent being that I am, generously accepted their request for the gift of my presence.

In two weeks, I’ll be returning for my second year at LSE. But this weekend, I’m sitting in Dev’s bedroom with him and Niall playing video games on his crappy PS3 and working through his stash of Walkers.

It’s nice. Relaxing. Both familiar, and also a change of pace. And I don’t miss Simon. Not even a little bit.

Dev’s at his family’s home in Hampshire, and it’s close enough to London that Snow agreed to accompany me for a visit. I’ve taken him to the club a few times in the year and a half of our relationship, and he loves it for the food. I dropped him off there, knowing he won’t have any trouble entertaining himself for a few hours. Everyone he meets falls in love with him, after all. We’ll drive back tonight.

Maybe a little bit. But just _a little bit_. He’s a magnificent disaster that it’s impossible to stay away from.

“_Baz._ Stop daydreaming about Snow’s eyes and _pay attention_.”

I snap back to the present to Niall’s character pushing mine off of a cliff. He and Dev cackle.

“Not my fault that my boyfriend is the most beautiful person you’ll ever have the good fortune of meeting.” What I say is true, of course, but I’ve found that gushing about Snow is one of the most effective ways of shutting Dev and Niall up. (Plus, it gives me the chance to indulge the part of me that will never, ever get tired of being _Simon Snow’s boyfriend.)_

Sure enough, Niall gags and Dev shoves my shoulder. It’s enough to make my character--who has just respawned--die again. I scowl as they resume laughing.

“Merlin, Baz, could you shut up about Snow for _one second?”_ Dev asks as he munches on a crisp.

My character respawns again, and I take advantage of Dev’s distraction to go after his. It dies, and I smirk.

“I could,” I say, “but then you might forget about the fact that he’s _beautiful_, or that he is the saviour of the World of Mages, or that he calls me _darling_\--”

I’m just rambling at this point--and I can feel myself honestly _blushing_. It’s almost a relief when Niall smacks me across the face with a pillow.

It pushes my character off again, and I’m out of lives. A sad little animation plays, and then the game resumes with just Niall and Dev’s characters competing.

Dev reaches over to high-five Niall, and throws a crisp at me. I catch it in my mouth and smirk, then sit back and listen to the two of them bicker as they fight to the death.

After we get bored playing games, Niall queues up Netflix on Dev’s telly, and the three of us sit on his bed in a big pile. My legs are sprawled across Dev’s stomach as he lays with his head in Niall’s lap. Niall has the remote as he scrolls through the menu, occasionally pausing on things for long enough for Dev or I to reject them. Eventually, I snatch it and select _Dead Poets Society,_ because _of course you would like that movie, Basilton_. They tease me some more about _memorising poetry to woo Snow_ until I shut them up by whacking them on the head repeatedly with a pillow.

After the movie’s over, Dev commandeers the remote and puts on _The Office,_ because he’s an actual moron. I lay back on the pillows and pull out my mobile. I have two texts from Snow, and one from Daphne. I respond to her first.

Daphne suggested that the four of us eat at the manor before Snow and I drive back to London. I tell her _yes_, and she texts me a list of things to grab from Tesco for dinner when we come over. I give the news to Niall and Dev--to which they cheer--before switching over to my texts from Simon.

_they have sour cherry scones at the club!!!_ his first text reads, followed an hour later by, _miss you! <3 hows niall and dev?_

It’s a struggle not to correct his atrocious grammar, but I know I’m smiling as I text back, grammatically correctly, _Excellent. We’re having dinner with my family before we leave._

And then a few seconds later--because I’m a constant disappointment to myself--_I miss you, too._

I stare at my phone for a long time, waiting for the three little dots to pop up on his end of the conversation. Only when Dev shoves my leg and shouts, _“Baz!”,_ do I put it down on my chest.

When it vibrates several minutes later, I snatch it up instantly. Snow’s sent two texts again. The first one says, _okay!! __J_, while the second is just three sparkly heart emojis. I refuse to give that much, so I don’t respond. I’m smiling anyway.

Apparently, I do have some sort of “lovestruck-about-Simon-Snow” expression, because Niall takes one look at my face, groans dramatically, and says, “Aleister _Crowley_, Baz.”

I know there isn’t any way that I could win this, so I remove my feet from Dev’s stomach and roll over away from them. Snow hasn’t sent me any more messages since I didn’t respond to him, so I scroll up through our text history. (So that it will look like we’re talking if my friends happen to look over.) (And because sometimes he texts me things like _I love you_ and _darling_.)

They don’t look over for a long time, so I spend the rest of the episode caught in the strings of _I love you_s. When the ending music begins to play, the telly is abruptly switched off. It draws me out of my thoughts, but I don’t have time to prepare before both Dev and Niall are jumping on top of me. It knocks my mobile to the floor and the breath from my lungs.

My mobile gets forgotten as Dev and Niall and I wrestle, and then eventually jump up to go play football outside in the backyard. By the time we’re done and I’ve showered and changed back into my proper clothes, I check it and see that I still don’t have any messages from Snow. And then that the time is fifteen minutes before five. I yell to my friends, they scramble to get changed, and then we hop into Dev’s car to go to Tesco.

Vera greets us at the door when we pull up to my family’s manor. She seems happy to see Niall and Dev, and it makes me feel a little guilty--I haven’t invited them over in a long time, so it’s been almost two years since anyone at this house has seen them. My siblings probably miss them, and I know that it’s mutual--Dev always asks after them when we talk.

Since Vera’s gone to get Daphne, we take off our coats ourselves, and are hanging them up by the time she rounds the corner. Mordelia is with her, and it seems I was right--she shouts and tackles Niall as I hand Daphne the plastic bag of food. She smiles at me, kisses me on the temple, and then moves past me to do the same to Dev.

Mordelia hugs me as soon as she’s done with my minions. I bend down so she can reach. I am a bit surprised that none of my other siblings came when they heard her scream--they love Dev and Niall as much as she does.

“Where are the others?”

Mordelia pulls back. “Mathias’s sleeping, and Audrey and Idina are upstairs with Simon.”

Obviously, his name catches my attention. Everyone else must be able to tell, too, because Niall groans dramatically. I ignore him. “Simon’s here?”

She nods. “Mum picked him up from the club _hours_ ago. He’s in Audrey’s room f’you wanna go snog.”

Dev snorts, Daphne says _“Mordelia!”_, and I luckily don’t have enough blood in me to blush.

I get to my feet and try to be as aloof as I can when I say, “How do you even know what that _means?”_ She starts to reply, but I stalk down the hall to my sister’s room, and her words are lost.

I can hear his voice even before I reach the door. It’s too muffled for me to discern any of the words, but it’s familiar and soothing and wonderful. I stop for a moment and listen. (No one is around to see, so it doesn’t matter that I’m smiling like a lovestruck idiot. I’d take being teased relentlessly every day if it meant that I could_ have him_.) (And it does. _I do._)

One of the twins’ high-pitched voices--I think it’s Idina--interjects as I’m about to open the door. Snow cuts off as he listens, and then he’s laughing and responding to her with the sound of it in his voice. It makes me smile more.

I was a bit apprehensive about bringing him here the last time we came, a month or so ago. I know they were all scared of (or, in Mordelia’s case, furious with) him when we visited last Christmas. As much as I love to see my family, I didn’t want to if it meant that Simon would be miserable and despised every time. But I was too weak to not come at least once.

Now, I’m very glad we did. I spent a large part of the afternoon speaking with Father, so Snow was left on his own for a while before dinner. I felt bad about that, up until the minute I stepped outside and saw him sitting and talking and laughing with Mordelia whilst _wearing my football shirt._

I don’t think I’d ever loved him more than I did in that moment.

Whatever they talked about, I think it was important. Every time I speak with Daphne, there’s a few minutes at the end where Mordelia asks to talk to Simon. She seems almost more eager to see him than me, now.

It’s kept us coming back for visits--it was part of the reason he agreed to come with me to Hampshire today, I know. And it means that we’ll keep coming back. My father doesn’t like Snow yet, but now that Mordelia has decided that she does, I know the rest of my family will follow, eventually.

Especially if they’re anything like me. For me, falling in love with him was inevitable and the most logical thing in the world.

Right now, it seems like Idina and Audrey are having their turn.

There was a time where I thought I’d be happy to let him know how I felt when he killed me. Then, I thought it’d be enough to do it as I spelled him away when I killed myself. And then he kissed me and asked to be my terrible boyfriend and let me come over to his flat as often as I want and told me he loves me. It was everything I never expected to have, and I couldn’t think of anything more perfect.

And then I saw him smiling at my sister and her looking at him with stars in her eyes. That night at dinner, she insisted on sitting next to him, and he was too busy talking to her to pay any attention whatsoever to me.

Daphne isn’t my mother, but I love her the same amount as if she was. One of the things I love her for the most is Mordelia and Audrey and Idina and Mathias. Seeing my sisters and my brother was always my favourite part of leaving Watford. They’re wonderful, insufferable little gremlins.

It makes me happier than I thought I’d ever be that they and Snow love each other too.

I hear a giggle from behind the door--I think it’s Audrey, this time--and finally push it open.

On the other side, Simon Snow and both of my five-year-old sisters are huddled together in the middle of Audrey’s far-too-large bed. The girls look up when I open the door and give me matching smiles. Snow’s eyes are focused on the book spread out across his lap. He’s reading to them, and doesn’t notice me.

I lean against the doorframe, cross my arms, and smile back. Idina--sitting on Snow’s right--tugs on his arm until he stops reading to look at her.

“What is it, little puff?”

Something in my chest squeezes.

Audrey gives me a knowing grin that I’m sure she learned from Mordelia. I stick my tongue out at her. Idina points at me. “Baz’s back!”

Snow looks over, and his entire face lights up like the sun with his smile. It takes my breath away. “Baz!”

“Hi, love,” I breathe.

He shifts, like he’s going to get up. Much as I’d like that, he looks far too adorable, with a twin curled up on either side of him and leaning nearly into his lap to see the book. Plus, the two of them instantly look murderous as soon as he tries to move. Instead, I push off the wall, cross the room to the bed, lean over him, and kiss him squarely on the lips.

It’s because I want to (I always want to) and because I missed him, but also because instantly Idina and Audrey let out loud shrieks of horror. Audrey--trapped between Simon and I--reaches up and pushes me away. Idina buries a hand in his bronze curls and yanks his head backwards. I’m smiling, but it turns into something resembling a snarl when I see Idina pull him. I’m about to yell at her, but Simon is laughing. He’s laughing so hard that he collapses onto his back in between the two of them.

My sisters exchange bewildered looks. The next second, they’re both falling squarely onto Snow’s chest. This is something they’ve done loads with me and even Father and Daphne sometimes, so I let them. Snow huffs out a breath in surprise, but then he’s back to giggling. This time, they join in.

Snow abandons their book to pull the two of them to him and start ruthlessly tickling. Their shrieking fills the air. None of them notice as I sit down on the edge of Audrey’s bed.

The book they were reading gets kicked over towards me in their fight. I pick it up and look at the title. _Grimm’s Fairy Tales._ I smile.

Only a few seconds later, the book is lost again as Idina pounces on me and draws me into their fight. We squirm around on the bed (and nearly fall off of it, in Snow’s case). It’s reminiscent of earlier, when Dev and Niall tackled me for texting Snow. I only feel a little bit guilty about enjoying Audrey, Idina, and Snow’s company more than I enjoyed theirs.

Eventually, the twins collapse into giggling, panting lumps in the centre of the bed. Simon gives me a wink and his approximation of a smug look. It’s a terrible approximation, but I think I actually am blushing, this time.

It’s because of the exertion.

Once we’ve all caught our breath, Snow says, “How was Dev’s?”

“Good.” I look away from him, to where Idina has grabbed the book of fairy tales, and Audrey is trying to take it from her. “It seems like you three had fun.”

Blushing, he says, “Your stepmum was busy, so I said I’d read to them.”

“Simon does the voices good!” Idina pipes up. Snow blushes.

“Simon does the voices _well_,” I say, trying not to smile.

“Simon does the voices better than you,” Audrey chimes in, sweetly.

My jaw drops in mock horror. “You take that back. _No one_ does the voices better than me.”

Audrey nods, as if she’s agreeing with me. “No one except for Simon.”

I am fully prepared to retaliate, but before I can, there’s a knock on the door. It creaks open, and all four of us look to see Daphne standing there. The look on her face when she sees our little pile is incredibly fond.

She’s been there for longer than my own mother, but something inside me still goes warm whenever she looks at me like she loves me. It does the same thing whenever Simon looks at me like that, too.

Now, both of them are.

“Mum!” Idina announces. “Simon does the voices better than Baz!”

Daphne smiles and looks at Simon. He blushes and stares down at his hands. I want to reach out and hold them. If I don’t, they’re bound to find their way into his hair soon. I know he’s still a bit uncomfortable around Daphne.

(It’s not as bad as he is around my father, of course.)

She says, “I thought Basilton was the _best_ at doing the voices.”

We’ve been over this, but Idina and Audrey both pause, like they’re thinking through something seriously. They stare at Snow, but he’s still looking at his hands and doesn’t notice.

“Simon’s _even better_ at the voices than Baz,” Idina says eventually. Her voice is urgent, like she’s on the precipice of some great revelation. Snow must hear it, too--he looks up.

Whatever it is, Audrey seems to have realised it already. “And if Simon’s the bestest, then he has to read to us _lots_. Which means he has to stay ‘round _forever_.”

Daphne’s mouth drops open. Snow stops breathing. I swear I’m going to throttle her.

Forever. For-_fucking_-ever. It’s been a year and a half--a year and a half of a relationship I never thought I was going to get.

I can’t wish for forever. My life is already so much better than I ever imagined it could be, and there’s still so much that we don’t know how to handle. Snow’s a bit past taking the days one at a time at this point, but not much. He isn’t sure of anything. I wouldn’t be, either, if I’d been through what he has. It’s selfish to want forever.

But I do anyway. I’ve known since I was fifteen years old that Simon Snow was it for me. When I thought _forever_ was, _maybe_, the far side of nineteen, I was glad that he was going to be in it. Now, it’s so much more. But I still want him there for it.

I haven’t told any of this to him yet, of course. He has enough to worry about without having to think about the fact that I’d fallen for him four years ago.

I think Audrey’s realised she said something wrong. Good. She looks sheepishly from Daphne to me. I avert my gaze to my hands in my lap. I shall not cry over this.

All of us avoid looking at Snow. At least, until he clears his throat.

He’s staring at me. I tilt my head up, so he can’t see the tears. No one speaks for aeons.

And then he and Daphne both do at the same time. Daphne starts to say, _“Aud--”, _but she cuts off as soon as she hears his voice.

I know I’ll always remember what he says.

“I don’t know if I can promise _forever, _Audrey,” he says to her, but he’s looking at me. My breath catches in my throat--he actually _takes my breath away_, the gorgeous bastard. “Not yet. Maybe… maybe one day. But for now… for now, I can promise that I’ll be here to read to you for a long time.”

My sisters cheer and I think Daphne gasps, but I barely hear it. My world has narrowed to him. Him and his bronze curls and blue eyes and moles like stars. Him, who said _a long time_ and _maybe one day_.

Him whom I love and who loves me, and, and…

_“Simon.”_

He smiles with half of his mouth. I want to kiss it off his face, but we’re still in the room with my stepmother and my five-year-old sisters. “I love you, Baz.”

As soon as we’re alone. _As soon as we’re alone._

“I love you, too. _So much_, you beautiful nightmare.”

And then Audrey flings her arms around Simon’s waist. Both of us jump a little.

“I love you, too, Simon!”

Idina joins in on the other side. “Me, too!”

He looks down at the tops of their heads like he’s never seen them before. I see his lower lip tremble. It occurs to me that, aside from myself and maybe Penelope, they’re the only people to ever say that to him. (And Wellbelove, probably, but I’m not going to think about that.)

“I-I… yeah. L-love you guys, too.”

I look away, blinking furiously. Lock eyes with Daphne. She looks proud. Says, “It’s time for dinner.”

Idina and Audrey immediately detach from Simon’s side and sprint out the door. I stand and wait for him. When he does the same, his legs are shaking. I reach out my hand. He takes it, and squeezes tight.

Together, we make our way to the dining room. Mordelia, Mathias, Dev, and Niall are already sitting. Mordelia looks up when we enter. _“Simon!”_

“H-hey, Mordelia.”

She pats the seat next to her. I lead Snow over to it. He sits, and I sit on his other side, between him and Niall. A few minutes later, Audrey and Idina enter the room, followed by Father and Daphne. Instantly, the twins scramble for the seats opposite Snow and I.

On my left, Niall and Dev are talking about one of the video games we played this afternoon. On my right, Mordelia, Audrey, and Idina are scrambling for Snow’s attention. I stare down at my empty plate and listen.

I think about years of staring at Simon Snow from across our dark bedroom atop the turret. I think about him playing football with Mordelia, and reading a book of fairy tales to the twins. I think about his words.

Still talking with my sisters, he reaches out and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

_IV. Mathias Grimm_

* * *

**DAPHNE**

* * *

My oldest, Mordelia, was only a few months old when her half-brother started at Watford. There’s a photo in my bedroom of a little eleven-year-old Basilton holding his even littler baby sister on the day he left Hampshire to drive to school. Mordelia is sleeping in the photo, but Basilton is staring at her. The look on his face is a mix of sadness, fear, bravery, and pride all rolled into one.

It’s one of my favourite photos.

From the very beginning, Basilton would look forward to breaks from school, because it meant that he’d be able to see his sister. He used to rush through the door with a grin on his face, and immediately hug her when she came toddling over to him. And then he’d play with her and tell her stories about magic and everything he was learning. She’d look at him with stars in her eyes and ask him a million questions, and he’d answer every one of them with a patient smile. Later on, when the twins and Mathias came along, he’d do the same with them. They used to anticipate his holidays as much as he did, and whenever he was here, they’d all scramble against each other for his attention.

All of them are older now--Basilton has left Watford, and Mordelia will be starting soon enough. But, for all intents and purposes, nothing at all has changed. Not even Mordelia has grown out of idolising her older brother, and he hasn’t grown out of spoiling them rotten. I haven’t stopped fawning over them every time I see it, although Mordelia has taken to rolling her eyes whenever she catches me.

The only thing that has really changed at all is Simon Snow.

Nearly two years ago, when he came crashing through our front door two days before Christmas asking to see Basilton, none of the rest of my family knew what to think of him. Now, my children look forward to seeing him as much as they do to seeing their brother. They love him, and he loves them just as much as he loves Basil, even though it’s obviously in a different way. He’s always willing to play with them, and it surprised me at first, how much the girls sought out his attention.

It wasn’t unfamiliar. It’s the exact same thing that they do with Basilton. But Simon is nothing like Basilton, so I was a bit surprised that after Simon’s second Christmas here, all it took was one conversation each for the girls to take to him.

It’s late October, and both LSE and Simon’s university’s half-term breaks have lined up well with the one at Mordelia, Audrey, and Idina’s primary school. As soon as she realised this, Mordelia concluded that it meant that Basilton and Simon absolutely _needed _to come to Hampshire for a visit. She actually called her brother on her own to make her request, and I think that was part of why the two of them so quickly agreed.

Like always, the children are absolutely ecstatic to see their brother. Simon, too. It’s two days into their visit, and none of their enthusiasm has curbed even a little. Not even Simon or Basil’s. The girls have kept them on their toes for two days, always ready with something else to do with them or show them as soon as they get a second of free time.

I’ve been prepared to intervene, but I haven’t needed to yet. Simon is naturally exuberant and social--he can match the energy of a nine-year-old and two five-year-olds surprisingly well. Basilton isn’t, but he’s always made time for his siblings. Plus, by now they know him well enough to know how not to push him. When he starts getting overwhelmed, they just go to Simon.

It’s meant that the past few days for me have been very quiet. I always take a bit of time off work when the children have school breaks--when it’s just Mathias at home most of the day, I leave him with Vera. With four children all under ten years old, it’s a little much for her. But with Simon and Basilton here, I’ve mostly been on my own.

Right now, the five of them are outside playing football. It’s one of both Simon and Mordelia’s favourite activities, and between them, they managed to convince Basil to play. The twins will usually go along with most things their older sister wants, so they joined too. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop. It’s close enough to hear them if they need me, but far enough away that I can still concentrate on getting work done.

After I’ve been working for about an hour, I hear Mathias calling for me. I head upstairs to his room, where he’s been napping since everyone else began their game of football. Now, he’s awake and sitting up in his bed, but he still isn’t tall enough to climb in and out of it on his own. When I open the door, he raises his arms to me.

I carry him back downstairs to the kitchen. With a juice box, he’s content to sit in my lap and stare at the screen of my computer as I continue to work. Basilton decided when he was eleven that all his siblings were going to be precocious. So, like with all their sisters, by now he’s started teaching Mathias how to read simple words. Every once in a while, he sees a word that he recognises, like _a _or _the_, and reaches out to my screen to try and touch it.

After another fifteen minutes, Mathias has nearly finished his juice box when the door to the kitchen is pushed open. I look over and see Simon Snow, grinning and standing in the doorway with mud all over Basil’s football shirt.

“Hiya, Mrs. Grimm!” he says. He looks down at my lap. “Hi, Mathias.”

I smile at him. Mathias hides his head in my shirt and very quietly says, “Hi.”

I run a hand over his hair and push my chair away from the table. “Hi, Simon. Have you finished your game?”

Simon nods. “Audrey and Idina were dirtier than me, so Baz told me to wait while he gives them a bath and Mordelia showers.” He pauses. “Um. If that’s okay.”

“Of course. Can I just **Clean as a whistle **your shirt so that you don’t drop mud in the kitchen?”

He looks surprised, like he’d forgotten about the mud. But then he nods, and I pull out my wand and cast the spell.

As soon as the mud is swept out the door, Simon’s grin returns. It’s a bit shyer this time. “Um. Do you need anything while I’m waiting? I can… help you with dinner. Or something.”

His awkwardness reminds me that, so far, the two of us haven’t had much of an individual conversation yet. He’s always been distracted by Basilton or the girls. It’s enduring, in a way. It almost feels like Simon is the boyfriend that Basilton has taken home for the first time to meet his parents. Like the two of them weren’t enemies on opposite sides of a war they never should have been a part of. Like my stepson never had to worry about being queer or a vampire or loving someone he shouldn’t have.

I smile at Simon and I’m about to speak when Mathias whimpers from my arms. I remember that this isn’t an individual conversation yet, after all.

Mathias is staring at me imploringly. I know he’s essentially fine, so I press a kiss to his forehead and turn back to Simon. “Actually, would you mind going back outside and putting the football and goal markers back in the shed? Basilton always leaves them outside.”

I think Simon expected for me to say _no_, so he perks up visibly at my request. I have to bite down my smile--I’ve never seen someone so enthusiastic about doing chores before. “Sure thing!” he chirps, and then bangs back outside.

For a moment, I watch him out the window, then close my laptop and tuck it under the arm that isn’t holding Mathias. My office is up on the second floor--I set Mathias down on his feet and then carry my laptop up the stairs. He doesn’t follow me--I assume he stayed in the kitchen.

From here, I’m able to hear the sounds of the tap running and enthusiastic talking. The loo is just down the hall. I stick my head through the door and see Audrey and Idina already sitting in a bathtub almost overflowing with bubbles. Mordelia is nowhere in sight--she’s probably showering in the other second-floor bathroom--but Basilton is sitting in front of the bathtub. He’s only wearing his football shorts and kneeling on a towel, but it seems that all his efforts to stay dry were in vain--he’s already soaked through completely.

His back is to me, but I can still tell that he doesn’t seem to mind.

Basilton is wrestling shampoo into Idina’s hair. Audrey is sitting off to the side, her black hair already covered in suds, and playing with a rubber duck. She hears when I appear in the doorway and beams at me. “Hi, mum!”

All of my children except for Mathias look a lot like me and my side of our family. But that grin looks exactly like the one Simon just gave me downstairs.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say, and Basilton momentarily gives up on his stand-off with Idina for them both to look up.

Idina waves a bubble-covered hand at me with her own, “Hi, mum!”

Basilton gives me a small smile and asks, “Is Simon downstairs?”

I nod. “Putting away the goalposts. You forgot them again.”

That makes the twins giggle. If he had more blood in him, Basilton would be blushing. In retaliation, he flicks a pile of bubbles at Audrey’s nose, and she shrieks.

I leave right as the twins scoop up handfuls of bubbles and it turns into a full-on war. Their laughing follows me all the way to the stairs.

By the time I reach the bottom, I can hear Simon’s voice. It sounds like he’s made it back into the kitchen. He’s being quieter than he was before, though. I recognise the tone of voice he uses to talk to the twins, so I wonder if Mathias is still in the kitchen.

What I see when I turn the corner is enough to halt me in my place.

Simon is standing in the kitchen. His back is to me, so I can see the word _Pitch_ written across the shoulders of the football shirt he’s wearing. It makes me smile, and I know that, if he were here, Basilton would be, too.

In Simon’s arms is Mathias. One of his arms is wrapped around the back of Simon’s neck, and his head is pillowed on Simon’s shoulder. His head is down and his eyes are closed, but he looks up when he hears me enter. He gives me a little smile, but doesn’t speak. Simon is speaking, so I don’t either.

At first, I don’t focus on his words. Simon is wandering across the kitchen, and it isn’t until I see him pour some peanuts into one of Mathias’ plastic bowls that I realise what he’s doing. He picks up the bowl in his free hand, and nudges the side of Mathias’ head with his nose. My son turns his head into Simon’s shoulder and takes the bowl. He starts eating the peanuts and I step forward so that Simon can leave to go shower, but he doesn’t look like he wants to.

Instead, Simon wraps his now-free hand back around Mathias and continues wandering the kitchen. I back up, into the doorway, so that they don’t see me. Mathias hooks his head back over Simon’s shoulder as he eats, and I see that he’s smiling faintly. And that’s when I finally pay attention to what Simon is saying.

More specifically, my attention is caught by the word _Baz._ Simon says it quietly and with a smile in his voice--I can hear how special it is to him. He turns his head into the top of Mathias’ black hair and continues speaking.

It’s a story. My stepson’s boyfriend is telling my son a story about Basilton and Watford. I know that Simon read a story to the twins the last time he visited--I still remember Audrey declaring that he needed to stay around _forever_ to keep doing it.

And then what Simon said after. And the look on Basil’s face when he did.

I wonder if Simon’s story for Audrey and Idina was anything like this.

When he was younger, Basil would make up stories for his brother before he went to sleep. He did for his sisters, too, of course, but it was different for himself and Mathias. Special. The girls prefer to have their brother play with them, but their stories were something just for Mathias and Basilton. (Even if it was because he was too little to play very much.) For years, Mathias would reject bedtime stories by myself of Malcolm in favour of the ones his brother told. Basilton would even call from Watford, sometimes, before the Mage banned mobile phones. (And after, too. He just had to be more discreet.)

The way Simon is holding Mathias now--and the quiet, affectionate tone of his voice--reminds me of the way Basilton used to do it. I wonder if Mathias asked for it, or if Simon took it upon himself. Maybe Basilton told him how he used to tell stories to his brother, and Simon remembered and decided to try it himself.

Somehow, I doubt it. I think that was something too personal to Basilton for him to tell it to anyone, even his boyfriend.

I think Simon had the idea on his own. And if he did, that makes what I’m seeing before me even more wonderful.

None of my children were there for the time before Basilton started at Watford. Summers are similar, for a while, but seeing him is still mostly a novelty. But Mathias is different from his sisters. He’s three--he can’t remember a time before Basilton coming home meant Simon, too. The twins and Mordelia especially had years to bond with their brother, so they had to get used to Simon.

For his first few visits, I think Simon tried as hard as he could to avoid anything but Basil. But for Mathias, he’s been as constant as Basil has. Even though I doubt the two of them ever spent any time together before this, he isn’t new or unfamiliar. Mordelia had some of her own prejudices against Simon at first (another thing I still haven’t forgiven Malcolm for), so he had to work to get close to her and the twins.

Judging by the pleased look on Mathias’ face as he listens, I think it was the other way around for him. He’s shy around strangers, but Basilton and Simon aren’t strangers to him. He was to Simon, though so I think his avoidance in the past was because Simon didn’t know how to act. Not him.

And the look I can see on Simon’s face whenever he turns enough towards me--relaxed, happy, and a little bit incredulous--tells me that they’re both glad that he does, now.

Simon is almost at the end of his story--I hear him talk about the Crucible, so I think it’s the story of the day he and Basil were assigned as roommates--when Mathias yawns. (The story--what I hear of it--makes me smile. I know that Simon didn’t realise he didn’t hate Basilton until they were eighteen years old, but now he’s speaking of their first meeting with reverence.) (I know Basilton’s loved Simon much longer than he will say--this makes me think that maybe the same is true for Simon, too.)

Simon breaks off mid-sentence when he hears Mathias yawn. Mathias is still holding the empty plastic bowl lightly--Simon slips it from his fingers before it can fall. Mathias yawns again as it’s placed down on the counter, and then wraps both of his arms around Simon’s neck. He tucks his head under Simon’s chin, and falls asleep.

For a moment, Simon doesn’t move. He can’t quite look down at Mathias with their positioning, but he stands still and stares at the top of the black hair he can see. For some reason, he looks a bit shocked. Maybe he didn’t actually expect Mathias to fall asleep? He did just wake up from a nap, I suppose, but something tells me now that he spent more of that time playing than actually sleeping.

If I listen closely, I can hear one of the showers upstairs running. By now, I’m guessing that Basilton’s finished bathing the twins and Mordelia’s finished with her shower. But Basilton and Simon still have to clean up themselves, and even after that we have a fair amount of time before dinner. There’s still enough time to let him sleep. I take a step forward.

And then Simon relaxes. I don’t know how he hasn’t seen me yet, but he isn’t looking at me. He whispers, “Goodnight, little puff,” and kisses the top of Mathias’ head. I can see the tips of his smile peeking out above Mathias’ black hair.

I fall back. And then, watching the way my son smiles in his sleep, turn and slip silently from the kitchen. I head back to the stairs, to check on the twins.

Before I find them, I see Basilton. He’s coming out of his bedroom, wearing fresh clothes and with his hair perfectly dried. His eyes brighten when he sees me.

“Mother, have you seen Simon anywhere? He can shower now so long as Mordelia didn’t hog all the hot water.”

I keep walking until I’m next to him. I figure I must be looking at him with an incredibly fond expression, because his eyebrows pull together. Right as he’s about to question me, I reach up and kiss him on the cheek.

I see his eyes widen as I step back. I think of Simon’s description of their first day at Watford, and remember him leaving home for the first time when he was eleven. I think of how nervous he was, holding tightly to Mordelia in his arms, and wish I could go back and tell my eleven-year-old stepson that everything will work out even better than fine.

“Wh-what was that for?” Basil asks.

A strand of his hair has fallen across his cheek. I reach out and brush it back. He lets me.

“That Simon of yours is something special,” I say. “I hope you plan on holding onto him for a long time.”

Basilton smiles softly as soon as I say _Simon_. I can tell it’s totally involuntary, and it reminds me of the days where he never let himself show anything he was feeling without thinking six different ways about how it could possibly be perceived.

I’ve never been happier for anything than I am for the fact that we’ve finally passed those days.

His smile widens when his eyes find mine. It’s the same smile that I saw Simon give to my son downstairs, and the one he gives to the girls whenever they run up with something to show him.

The same smile as the one I give to all my children.

Adoring. Proud. A little bit protective. For family.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Basilton says. “I do.”

_V. Daphne Grimm_

* * *

**DAPHNE**

* * *

“Look, look, look, snow! It’s _snowing!”_

I glance up from my book at the sound of Idina screaming. She bursts through the door of the sitting room with an explosion. A wild smile is on her face, and her grey eyes are bright.

“Did you guys _hear me? _It’s _snowing!”_

“We heard you perfectly fine, Idina.” Basilton, sitting across the room with Mathias on his lap, barely looks up as he answers his sister.

Idina is not pleased with this response. She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. “It’s _Christmas!_ It’s Christmas and it’s _snowing_, so we _have_ to go play outside!”

Mordelia and Audrey are sitting on the sofa beside my armchair. They’re fidgeting, and I can see them glancing at me from the corner of my eyes.

With a sigh, I shut my book. “Yes, you can go play outside.” The girls cheer so loudly that I have to pause before continuing. “But _only_ if an adult goes out with you! And do not ask your father, me, or Vera.”

Idina _awwws_, but Mordelia and Audrey are already scrambling across their sofa. At the other end of it sits Simon Snow. He’s dressed in track bottoms and an old t-shirt--we just got back from the club, and he showered and changed--and holding a mug of cocoa. As the girls approach, he looks up with a startled expression on his face.

“Simon, Simon, will you _please_ play outside with us?! _Please?”_

Simon laughs and exchanges a look with Basilton, who’s sitting on the floor at his feet. My stepson tips his head back to smile up at his boyfriend.

“Sorry, little puff,” he tells Audrey--who is currently hanging off of the arm that isn’t holding his cocoa. “I’m already all showered and comfy, see? Why don’t you ask your brother?”

Instantly, Mordelia and both the twins turn the full force of their begging on Basil. I hide a smile behind my hand when Mathias reaches up and tugs at the ends of Basil’s hair and adds his own voice to the fray.

With a sigh, Basilton removes his brother’s hands from his hair. He ignores all of his sisters and turns back around to look at Simon. “You’re the one with winter in your name, _Snow_,” he says. “Why don’t you go play outside with them?”

Simon raises his cocoa to his mouth and very loudly takes a sip. And then, the mug still against his lips, he tries to speak. Nothing is conveyed but a very indignant scramble of sounds that we all take to mean, “No.” I know that, were Malcolm here, he would be horrified. But he isn’t, and the children all burst out giggling. Basilton even smiles reluctantly, although it’s his exaggerated look of disgust that he lets Simon see.

Simon swallows his cocoa, and then smiles at Basil.

Instantly, Basilton looks away. He sighs in the dramatic way that only he can. All four of the children know what that means, and instantly jump up with excited cheers. They reach out their hands and tug their older brother to his feet, and then herd him from the sitting room, down the hall towards the foyer. I open my mouth to remind the girls to grab hats, mittens, and enough to stay warm, but stop when I hear that Basilton has beat me to it.

I know I’m smiling fondly in the direction they went as I listen to Basilton get his sisters and brother ready to go outside. A quick glance over shows me that Simon is giving his mug a very similar look.

We sit in silence as the girls chatter excitedly and then as Basilton guides them to the back of the house. The cheers gain in volume with the side of the glass door, and then cut off as it’s snapped shut.

Abruptly, the sitting room--and the rest of the house--is plunged into silence. For a couple of seconds, the only sound is the ticking of the clock. I open my book again.

Simon raises his mug and tips his head back to catch the last few drops of his cocoa. Then, he turns to me with a smile. “Thank you for the cocoa, Mrs. Grimm. It was great.”

The book is closed again. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.”

Simon smiles again and then looks back down at his empty mug.

It’s four days before Christmas--almost two years to the day since I met Simon Snow. If I think back to the thousands of reasons why that Christmas and the next were awful, and then compare it to now--with my children pleading with Simon to play outside with them--I can hardly recognise anything from then. Not them, with their wariness for the _Chosen One_. Not him, wildly outside anything he was comfortable with. And certainly not Basilton, with his walls and his silence and the way he masked any true emotion.

Everything is different, now. Everything is _better_. And it’s all because of Simon Snow.

Aside from Malcolm--who is still trying to process everything that Simon changes about Basilton’s future--and me, everyone in my family adores him. At first, I wasn’t sure. It took me a while of being around the two of them for their relationship to make sense. By now, I can see everything that Simon has made Basilton change about himself. And although I haven’t known him long enough to tell for sure, I think I can start to pick out things about Simon that are different from the way they were two years ago.

It’s been two years. It’s enough for me to tell that the two of them are already beginning to think about forever. (They probably were even before now. As soon as Audrey and Idina requested that Simon continue to read them fairy tales, maybe.) And I can’t imagine anyone who could possibly be as good for Basil as Simon is.

It’s past time, I think, that I put in some effort of my own.

“Simon, how would you like to help me make pastries for Christmas morning?”

I remember, vaguely, Basilton mentioning that Simon had taken up cooking and baking since the two of them left Watford. It isn’t something I would have expected from him necessarily, even with his love of food.

His eyes light up. “Of course! What are we making?”

I grin. Really, there’s only one way to answer that. “How about sour cherry scones?”

His jaw drops. “Do you… Baz says Cook Prichard is his cousin. Do you have her recipe?”

I stand from my armchair and place my book down on it. “I do.”

Simon stands with me. The fire, flickering in the hearth across the room, casts shadows across half of his face as he stretches his arms above his head. His blue eyes dance with flames.

The smile he gives me is unexpectedly soft and sweet. It makes him look much younger than twenty. Like a little boy, almost. My heart twinges. I can imagine a little Simon, Mathias or the twins’ age, smiling like that at his family. I don’t know how anyone’s heart wouldn’t melt.

“When I came to Watford, Cook Prichard’s scones were the best food I’d ever had,” he says. “They were like the World of Mages. I’d think about them when I was in the homes over the summer. It really helped--most of the food we got there wasn’t very good.”

I don’t know how anyone’s heart wouldn’t break.

Malcolm--and Basilton, now that I think of it--mentioned the Mage’s treatment of Simon enough for me to know that Simon spent every summer in a different home up until the year he left Watford. But it was always a distant knowledge--the way you’re concerned about unjust treatment because it’s unjust, but it’s easy enough to ignore because it doesn’t affect you. I never thought about it, really--what basically an entire life like that would mean. It doesn’t match with the boy who’s smiling at me with shining blue eyes. Or, at least it shouldn’t. Simon deserves better than that.

I turn to leave the sitting room. “Well come on, then.”

With his sweet, boyish smile, he scampers after me.

It isn’t all that late in the evening, but today is the solstice. Outside, daylight is fading from the world. It makes the manor--with its warm light and holiday decorations and the sound of the girls’ laughter from outside--seem even more cosy. I catch sight of Mordelia and Mathias through the window, throwing snowballs at each other. It’s hard to see their faces, but Mordelia turns, and for a moment I glimpse her smile.

The kitchen is empty when Simon and I reach it, and spotless. It isn’t close enough to Christmas, yet, for cooking to have turned it into a mess. Basilton and Simon helped the children made gingerbread biscuits yesterday, but I think they put more time into cleaning the kitchen afterwards than they did into actually baking.

Simon places a few plastic bowls and a wooden chopping board on the counter as I gather ingredients from the cabinets. When I turn, he takes most of them from my arms with an excited smile.

I can’t help but comment on it. “Have you ever made scones before?”

He snorts. “Yeah. The first time was a bit of a disaster, though. I tried to follow what they were doing on _Great British Bake-Off_ and almost set our kitchen on fire. Penny was livid.”

“But the second time was better?”

He beams, proud. “Yep! They weren’t even burnt, the second time! I haven’t made sour cherry scones, though. I’ve never been able to find ones that are as good as the ones at Watford.”

I must admit, his description makes me a bit nervous at having him assist me in the kitchen. I assumed that he did most of the work yesterday, with Basilton and the children, but perhaps not.

I look away from him. Clear my throat. Pull some butter from the refrigerator. “Yes. Well. Hopefully these taste the way you remember. Can you cut this into small cubes?”

He takes it from me and places it on the chopping board, then grabs a knife in his right hand. He turns back to me, and the knife dangles carelessly. “Yes, ma’am!”

Suddenly, I’m glad that the children are outside.

I turn away from him and pull the dry ingredients across the counter and begin mixing them into a bowl. Simon begins humming under his breath, and when I look over, I see him cutting the butter with precise, even strokes. It’s enough to make me relax, a little. I don’t know how much leeway Basil gave him yesterday, but they ended up with delicious biscuits and four uninjured children.

Plus, I can hear the sound of giggling from outside, the crackling of the fire, and Simon softly humming Christmas carols. It’s too warm and peaceful to be worried about anything.

When he’s finished with the butter--it’s in nearly perfect, even cubes--I pull down the food processer and start adding in the ingredients I mixed. He stands next to me with the butter.

“So,” I say in between pulses of the processer, “what made you decide to take up cooking?”

Simon beams and pulls out the cherries when I open the refrigerator. “My therapist suggested it, actually. She said it would be a good way to distract my mind and keep busy.”

It surprises me so much, I nearly drop the bowl I’m holding.

Of course, I knew Simon has a therapist. Basil has complained to me that Simon is trying to get him to talk to her, too. With everything that’s happened in his life, I’m relieved that he has someone to speak to about it. And when I think about it, it helps explain some things about him that have changed in the two years since we met. (The things that haven’t been changed by Basilton.) (It’s far easier to spot the things Simon has changed about _him._)

“That’s wonderful, Simon,” I say, removing the dough from the processer. “Do you think that it’s helping you?”

Reaching over my shoulder, he starts to fold the cherries into the mixture. He’s chopped them small, just as precise as the butter was. “Yep! It really helps me focus. I think more clearly when I’m cooking. Plus, I get to eat good food at the end! And if it doesn’t turn out good, I can usually make Baz eat it.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. Smoothing the dough out on the chopping board, I imagine Basilton choking down one of Simon’s failed baking attempts. It’s only too easy to visualise.

When I turn to grab the knife to slice the scones, Simon is already at my shoulder and handing it to me, end-first. I smile. Maybe he was in charge during the baking of the biscuits, yesterday. My children have been making them together for years and they’re always delicious, but this time they seemed to taste even better than usual.

I ask him as much.

He blushes. “I… yeah. I wanted to bake them at mine and Penny’s and bring them as a gift for you guys, but Baz pointed out that they probably wouldn’t travel well in the car. Plus… I thought the littluns might appreciate it. Having their own biscuit recipe. They can bake them with their friends or their boyfriends or girlfriends when they get older.”

One of his hands has found its way into his hair--a nervous tell of his, Basil has mentioned to me--and the smile he gives me is sheepish. Like I won’t approve of him being so considerate and teaching my children something that means so much to him, after everything else he’s already done for them over the years.

For all of them.

I smile at him, and then cross the room to pull him into my arms.

At first, he’s stiff from surprise. Quickly, his hand comes down from his hair, but it takes a moment for him to cautiously place it around my shoulders. Once he does, it’s like the snapping of a cord. His whole body relaxes, and then he’s clinging to me. He isn’t as tall as Basilton is, but he is taller than me. Somehow, he still manages to tuck his head against my shoulder. When I brush a hand over the top of his curls, he holds to me so tight it steals my breath away.

I’m sure he gets hugs from Basilton and Penelope Bunce, but the way he’s clinging makes me realise that he’s probably never been held like _this_ before. By a parent. Certainly not since he began at Watford, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t even before then. I try to picture Simon at three or four being denied affection of any sort, and it breaks my heart for him again.

He finally pulls away from me when the preheat bell on the oven dings. He turns away quickly, to grab the sheet of scones, but I don’t miss the way he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. His back is turned to me as he places the sheet in the oven and sets the timer, but he realises as soon as he turns back that I saw.

“S-sorry,” he tells the tile. “I-I didn’t mean to. Um. Cry on you. I-I just. Um.”

I can’t help but laugh a little bit as I step towards him and open my arms again. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t apologise. I’m so very glad you decided to teach the kids. I’m sure they had a wonderful time.”

Our hug this time is shorter, but Simon holds just as tight.

When he pulls back this time, he collects all the dishes we used and takes them over to the sink. As he lathers up a sponge and turns on the warm water, he looks back at me over his shoulder. “Thank you so much for letting me help, Mrs. Grimm. Would you mind--could I possibly get the recipe?”

I laugh again. I’ve known this boy for two years and have seen examples of it every time I see him, but somehow, I don’t think I ever quite realised how impossibly sweet Simon Snow is.

I don’t know how any parent in the world wouldn’t want him.

“Absolutely,” I say, and he beams. It’s as bright as a star. When he turns back to the dishes, he’s started humming again under his breath. This one isn’t a Christmas carol--I recognise it as one of the songs Basil is practising on his violin. He played it to Mathias two days ago.

The sun has fully faded from the sky now. The stars and the full moon twinkle overhead, casting silvery shadows on the trees and making the snowbanks shine like diamonds. Close to the house and the back porch, there are dark patches of disrupted snow--where Basilton, Mathias, and the girls have been playing. They’re quiet now, and mostly invisible, but I can see their silhouettes moving back towards the door. I cross the kitchen and flick on the kettle. Simon, washing the final bowl, grins at me.

I glance at the oven timer, and then over to the back door. “Simon, would you get the mugs down? I have a feeling everyone is going to want some tea.”

Simon sets down the bowl and opens up the tea cabinet. “I think you’re right, Mrs. Grimm.”

I smile at his back. I can hear Basilton and the children outside now. A second later, the door bursts open, and Mordelia, Audrey, Idina, and Mathias spill in the door. They’re covered in snow, though, and Basilton stops them before they can move from the mat. Efficiently, he leads the four of them back into the foyer to take off all their snow gear. They call out greetings to Simon and I and wave at us, and then the kitchen drops into silence in a reflection of him leading them outside earlier.

When I turn to Simon, he’s giggling. “Baz’s going to be scowling all night, after that.”

I smile. The timer for the scones goes off, and I take them from the oven. Simon clears a section of the counter for me to transfer them from the baking sheet. Then, with a glance towards the door, he begins pouring water from the kettle into the seven mugs on the counter.

Once he’s done, he brings mine over to me. Mordelia’s voice, from the foyer, grows louder. It sounds like they’re nearly done. I turn to look at Simon, and catch a glimpse of his blue eyes.

“Thank you,” I say. He smiles and cradles his own mug in his hand. “Oh, and Simon?”

He glances back up. I place my mug down on the counter and brush back the curls that are spilling over onto his forehead. “No more _Mrs. Grimm_. You’ve been dating my stepson for two years, sweetheart. Call me Daphne.”

The smile that shines on Simon’s face is the brightest one he’s given all night. “Daphne,” he says, slowly. Like he’s testing it. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I hug him again.

I pull back, this time, when the children burst into the kitchen. They immediately start cheering for tea and scones, and I gather and distribute the mugs. Once everyone is settled, I glance over and see Simon, blushing and having a silent conversation with Basilton across the kitchen counter.

Audrey runs at Simon and wraps her arms around his waist. “Simon, Simon, did you make us scones?”

Simon smiles and ruffles her hair. “They’re for Christmas, little puff. But yes I did--I helped Daphne.”

Normally he just calls me _your mum_, so he looks up after he speaks. Making sure it’s okay, that ridiculous boy.

The smile that I normally save for my children, I now give to Simon.

He beams at me, and then over at Basil.

When I look at Basilton, he’s hiding a smile behind his hand. His grey eyes are glittering as he stares at Simon, and there are snowflakes in his hair.

Simon hoists Audrey up into his arms, and then sets her on the counter. She wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. He runs his fingers through her hair, humming that same song of Basil’s.

Mathias walks over to me and raises his arms. I lift him up. He smells like snow and baby powder and spices and the holidays, and I close my eyes and let myself get lost in it. All of it.

When I open them, Basilton is still smiling at Simon.

_+I. Simon Snow_

* * *

**SIMON**

* * *

I had been wondering when this would come back to haunt me.

Well. I suppose that isn’t true, exactly. It mostly is. But it sort of isn’t.

To be honest, for a while, I’d forgotten about my conversation with Mordelia. Going to the Grimms’ after that, and spending time with Baz and Mordelia and Audrey and Idina and Mathias and Daphne, was mostly enough to make me forget about Mr. Grimm. He tries to avoid us as much as possible, whenever he knows that Baz and I are visiting.

I’d also been wondering when that would end. I suppose I should have known that they would both happen at the same time.

The Christmas holidays during mine and Baz’s second year of uni were, I think, when Daphne decided that she likes me. She must’ve talked with Mr. Grimm about it, after. This is our first visit since then, and I’ve already seen more of him than I have in the previous two years combined.

When we first got here, it was easy enough to ignore. Mordelia, the twins, and Mathias immediately swarmed Baz and I. He knows how much I love that by now, so he pulled away to talk with his father and his stepmum, leaving me and the littluns to fawn over each other. Audrey and Mathias dragged me away with little more than a polite nod at Mr. Grimm. (And a hug and a kiss from Daphne, but I actually enjoyed that bit.)

Arriving was great. The afternoon was fine. After Baz got done talking with his dad, he came and we played with the kids. This is what isn’t fine.

For the first time I can remember that _isn’t _a holiday, Mr. Grimm is sitting down to dinner with us. Judging by the cold looks he keeps giving her, I think it’s only because Daphne made him. But still.

There are eight of us at this table. Mr. Grimm, Daphne, Mordelia, Audrey, Idina, Mathias, Baz, and me. By now, I have six of them on my side. Baz is even holding my hand under the table. But whenever Mr. Grimm turns and looks at me, I’ve never felt smaller. Not even when the Mage was at his angriest.

(Anything that Baz tries to claim about his father being a better father-figure than mine is completely false, and I have the evidence to prove it.)

I think that the children know that something important is happening. Normally, all four of them chatter nonstop to anyone at the table around them who will listen. (Normally, that’s me. I love it so much--all their enthusiasm and happiness.) But now, they’re quieter than I’ve heard in a long time. It has the same calm-before-the-storm feel of dinner at my second Christmas here, right before Mr. Grimm started shouting at Baz.

I’m pretty sure Baz is going to have permanent marks on the back of his hand, from how hard I’m digging my nails into it. He doesn’t do anything to stop me.

After two years, I’ve actually gotten Baz to be better about eating in front of people. He doesn’t pause, anymore, before doing it at mine and Penelope’s apartment. I even convinced him to do so here, last year. To eat Christmas dinner at the table in front of all his siblings. I was on the verge of tears for almost the entire meal. (Even though I think a big part of why he did it was because of the kisses I gave him once we were alone in his room.) But today, he isn’t eating. His plate is bare, and he’s alternating between staring at it, me, and his father.

Daphne is pretty much the only person talking. And pretty much the only one she’s talking _to_ is Mr. Grimm. Occasionally, one of the children will pipe up and ask something, but it’s never more than a few seconds’ distraction. I’m alternating between staring at Baz and trying to eat my food as slowly and politely as I can. (Which admittedly isn’t very much. Especially only using my right hand.) (I can _feel_ Mr. Grimm’s stare of disproval.)

We’ve been eating for about half an hour when Daphne turns to me. Unlike her husband, she’s smiling and kind and not scary at all and having that smile on me makes me relax, a little. My grip on Baz’s hand loosens so it’s no longer bruising. He squeezes my hand and turns his head enough for me to see the edge of his smile.

All night, Mr. Grimm has been asking Baz tense questions about school and London in a tone of voice that indicates that he doesn’t really care. So far, I’ve been saved much of the same--it seems Mr. Grimm doesn’t even care enough to pretend, with me. I’m expecting Daphne to ask something similar. I like her, but I’m sure she likes her husband more than she likes me, and she’ll probably prefer to help him.

She doesn’t. Instead, she smiles at me and says, “How is Cook Prichard’s recipe working out for you, Simon?”

For a moment, I can’t speak with how relieved I am. Then, I swallow a few times and am able to say, “Really great! It took a bit of experimenting for me to make them taste the way I remember from Watford, but I make them all the time, now!”

From my side, Baz agrees with a snort and Daphne gives him a smile of his own. I turn my head and smile at him the same way he smiled at me. In the process, my eyes catch on Mr. Grimm’s. He’s stoic as always, but I’ve gotten better at reading Baz’s expressions, and I can see the similarities between them. The draw of his eyebrows shows disapproval. Quickly, my smile falls from my mouth, and we lapse back into silence.

It’s about five more minutes before it’s broken. This time, it’s abrupt--there’s a sudden clanking sound, and we all turn to see that the culprit was Mordelia. She’s slammed her fork down onto her plate and is glaring between me, Baz, and her father.

Mr. Grimm’s expression hardens further. He tries to say, “Mordelia--”, but she cuts him off.

“No!” She’s pointing her finger at him like an eighteenth-century schoolteacher. (I can imagine some of our instructors at Watford doing something similar.) She’s just barely ten years old and there’s some sauce smeared in the corner of her mouth, but her glare is harsh enough that I’m intimidated anyway. “You need to _stop it.”_

It’s silent for a long time. I think we’re all in disbelief at her. In over two years, I’ve never heard anyone speak to Mr. Grimm that way. He’s the _definition_ of “stern father whose word is taken as gospel”.

The closest anyone’s ever come is Daphne, insisting that Baz not be shunned because of his relationship with me. I could barely believe it, that time. That someone thought I was important enough to make an exception for. Mordelia is the first member of this family that I ever bonded with (other than Baz, of course), but for some reason, I’m even more taken aback, now.

I don’t know how Mr. Grimm is feeling about Mordelia glaring and pointing her finger at him. But I’m sure it’s not the steely calm that’s in his voice as he says, “And what must I _stop_, Mordelia?”

She doesn’t back down one bit, of course. What I never would’ve expected, though, is her words. “Stop being _mean_ _to Simon_ just because he’s a boy and Basil loves him!”

I drop my fork onto my plate with a loud clatter. It’s the only sound in the room for a long while. My grip on Baz’s hand is back to bruising, but he’s squeezing right back.

I think Mr. Grimm wants to scream at his daughter. He very pointedly takes a deep breath, and then says, “And _where _did you get that idea?”

This is the moment when it all comes back to me. I thought that it was all over when Baz didn’t hear the things I said to his sister. They made Mordelia listen to me and showed her a different side to her brother, I think. But I didn’t expect that it would ever be brought up again. It’s been _almost a year_ since then--why would I?

I should have. I can only close my eyes, cling to Baz’s hand, and wait for disaster.

“Simon told me! He said you don’t like him because you wanna _pretend_ that Basil isn’t gay!”

I won’t be allowed to see any of them again. I won’t even be able to see _Baz_, after this. He’ll hate me. I’ve spent more time trying to hate Baz than I have trying to love him, but I can’t do this--I can’t go back to a world where I don’t get to kiss him and hug him and _be with him_, and I don’t know what to do.

I hear the scrape of a chair on the floor as it’s pushed back. I assume it’s Mr. Grimm, and I assume that he’s standing to throw me out of his house and warn me never to go around his son or any of his family ever again. I cling tighter to Baz’s hand--he hasn’t let go yet for some reason, or maybe I’m just holding so hard that he can’t work it free--and try not to cry.

At first, when I don’t hear shouting, I assume it’s because I’m too lost in my own head to be able to tell if it’s there or not. It wouldn’t be the first time--I started getting panic attacks after everything that happened with the Mage. I can still feel Baz’s hand in mine, and I’m putting all of my energy into just concentrating on that. It’s cool and real and I can feel him here, by my side, and that’s enough for me to bring myself back from the edge in a way I never managed to do with my magic.

Except when I’m recovered enough to open my eyes, I still don’t hear shouting. My eyes catch Baz’s for a moment, and he looks as confused as I feel. I squeeze his hand once in thanks (for helping ground me and also for not hating me for what Mordelia said), and together, we look up at his family.

I was right, at least, that the chair I heard scraping back was Mr. Grimm’s. He’s not the only one standing, thought. Mordelia is too, even though she’s no longer glaring at her father. A bit behind her and off to the side is Daphne, looking and Baz and me with a concern that almost makes me cry. (Even if she hates me after Mr. Grimm makes me explain everything that Mordelia said--and she will--that’ll still be _something._) (Because if I had a mum, I’d want her to be exactly like Daphne. She’s so much better than having a posh model for a mum, and she’s _real_, even if she isn’t mine.)

Behind Daphne sits the rest of the children, and I’m able to crack a genuine smile when I see that the only reason Audrey hasn’t jumped to her feet beside Mordelia is because Idina has a death grip on her arm.

Mordelia. Daphne. Audrey. Idina. Mathias.

Baz.

I’ve fought at the centre of a war before. This isn’t one. It isn’t so simple as Baz and the rest of his family with me against his father. It isn’t fair for me to ask them to make a decision like that. But standing like this, all of them drawn and stern and ready to defend what they believe in, it feels similar.

It’s _me_. I’m what they believe in. They’re all standing because they’re ready to defend _me. _I have to blink several times to keep from bursting into tears. I think Baz can tell anyway, because I feel him squeeze my hand.

It, and them, gives me the courage to face what’s about to come. And I know I’ll need it--as much as I can get.

Even though right now, Mr. Grimm isn’t glaring at me. He’s going back and forth between staring at Mordelia (it isn’t quite harsh enough to be considered _glaring_, even though I’m sure that’s only because he’s hiding it) and talking silently with Daphne. She, on the other hand, looks angry. When I see that, it surprises me so much that I don’t believe it at first. There’s no way she would ever take _my_ side in this. Mr. Grimm is her _husband_, and I’m just her stepson’s boyfriend who has done nothing but screw up for his entire life.

“Mordelia.” Mr. Grimm’s voice seems to ring in the deathly silence of the dining room. “I want to make one thing quite clear: never, _ever_, mention anything like that ever again. Do you understand me?”

Mordelia crosses her arms and raises her chin exactly the same way Baz does. “Why? So you can keep _pretending?”_

Despite myself, my jaw drops here. I hope no one sees it. The Christmas before last, Mr. Grimm, Baz, and I got into a screaming match and I accused him repressing his son _to his face._ (In hindsight, I suppose I can see why it always made Baz so angry when I insisted that the Mage was acting in my best interests...) But sill, I wish I could be as brave as this ten-year-old girl is.

(She isn’t a Pitch, but it is because she’s related to Baz.)

“Because this does not _concern _you!” Mr. Grimm snaps. “This matter is between myself and Basilton. You’re too young to understand.”

By my side, I can feel Baz stiffen. Daphne, too, is looking at him with wide eyes. I wonder if they’re thinking what I am--that Mordelia will agree and then Mr. Grimm will pull Baz aside and tell him that he has to break up with me, or... or _something_. Something horrible. And then Baz will get angry, but in the end he’ll agree because these are _his parents_ and _his siblings_ and I’m not _worth_ that.

I know it. I know I’m not. I can’t say that I’d do the same if I were the one in Baz’s position because I love him more than anything and I’ve never had a family before, but from knowing his...

From knowing his, it’s almost like I do. Mordelia is sassy and so much like her elder brother and Audrey and Idina are sweethearts and Mathias is adorable and Daphne is the closest thing to a mum I’ve ever had. The days that I spend with them are the ones I look forward to the most, and coming here just feels _right_, because it’s the love of my life and _his family_ and I thought that one day, they could... we could be...

Well_. _It doesn’t matter now, if I’m about to be dumped.

I really, really don’t want to be dumped. But I’m not going to argue with Baz if he tries.

That, I know, he would do for me.

I close my eyes and try to prepare myself for something that I know I’ll never be prepared for.

Mordelia says, “It does _too_ concern me_. _Because it’s _Simon _and _Basil._”

Mr. Grimm raises an eyebrow at her like he doesn’t know why this is significant. Daphne pulls in a breath and says, “Malcolm--”, but Mordelia cuts her off before she can finish.

“Simon said that you think Basil is _broken_,” she shouts, and I have never wished for someone to shut up more than I do in this moment. “Simon said that you want him to be with a girl and be sad forever more than you want him to be with a boy and be happy! But you’re _wrong!_ Because Basil loves _Simon_ and _I _love Simon and you can’t make him leave!”

I knew it, of course. I’ve known it for months, at this point. But tears still spring to my eyes when she says _I love Simon_. I never expected to be loved like that. Like family.

I never expected to _love_ like that, either. But I love this little girl to _pieces._ Losing her--all of them--will hurt almost as much as losing Baz.

Back when I was at Watford, I thought that no one in the whole World of Mages could fight for magic in the same way I could, because none of them knew what it was like to live without it. After losing my own magic, I still believe that. This situation is surprisingly similar. I’ve spent twenty years without a family, and now that I’ve finally found one, I’m _not_ about to lose it.

When Malcolm Grimm turns to me this time, I’m ready. His eyes are burning with fire, but mine are cool as they meet them. From my side, I hear Baz inhale sharply and then move to step between us, but I hold up my hand to stop him.

I love him for trying to protect me. But I think this is something that I need to say myself. Otherwise it won’t mean anything.

“Mordelia’s right.” I speak before Mr. Grimm can even open his mouth. “I do think all that. And I know that I’m right. _You_ know that I’m right, and so do they. You know I’m right, but you’ve spent years running from it. One way or another, that ends now. So throw me out or tell me that I can’t be with Baz, but I’m not letting you run anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where Mr. Grimm and I just watch each other. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out if I mean what I say, so I try to keep my expression as open as possible. Baz and Penny always seem to be able to tell what I’m feeling just by looking at my face--this is the one situation where I’m grateful for it.

I’m sure he can tell that I’m telling the truth, but I don’t know if he finds what he’s looking for in my expression or not. He turns to Baz without saying anything and gives him the same long, cool stare that he gave me. I tilt my head just enough to see, from the corner of my eye, that Baz is giving him the same sort of look back. (Only on him, it doesn’t look quite so menacing.)

Whatever he’s looking for in Baz’s expression, I don’t think he finds it. His eyes flicker to Daphne for a moment, and then he sighs, just the slightest bit, and turns back to me. “Simon. You may believe that. But--”

The use of my first name does surprise me--all the males in this family seem to have a weird dislike for the name _Simon_. Even Mathias has started picking up on calling me _Snow._ But I have to cut him off.

“I love Baz,” I say. It isn’t the first time I’ve said it, of course--not by far--but it feels monumental. “I love Baz more than anything, and I’ll never love anyone as much as I do him. I’d do anything to make him happy, and since you’re his father, shouldn’t that matter to you?” I turn my gaze to the side, where Daphne and all the children are looking at me with wide eyes. “It mattered to them. They all gave me a chance, even after we were on opposite sides of the war and they had no reason to except for the fact that Baz wanted them to. And now I can’t imagine my life without them. But I’d give it up for Baz. If he wanted me to leave. _Because I love him._”

Malcolm Grimm looks like he wants to scream at me. He looks like he wants to slap me across the face and kick me out of his house forever. But he doesn’t. Because as soon as I’m finished speaking--I’m proud of myself for the fact that my voice doesn’t waver--Daphne steps forward. Wraps an arm around my shoulders. Pulls me into her side. Levels her husband with one of the fiercest glares I’ve ever seen from anybody. (I’ve always thought that Baz got his remarkable glaring ability from his father, but maybe it was actually her.)

“It’s been years, Malcolm,” she says. “We aren’t going to change our minds on this.”

I think he can sense that he isn’t going to get anything from her. Daphne isn’t _my_ mother, but I feel proud anyway. At least until he turns his eyes back to Baz. My boyfriend is standing a few inches removed from my side, and I think he was staring at me until his father looked over at him. It still makes me smile despite everything--having his eyes on me.

When Mr. Grimm speaks, I can tell that this is it. “Basilton. You know my feelings on this matter. It’s time for you to make a choice.”

But then Baz cuts him off. His chin is tilted and he looks right scary. For a moment, my chest spasms with fear, but then, without looking, he reaches a hand back out for mine. “I already have, Father. I choose him. I choose Simon. I’ll always choose him.”

I bite down on my tongue to keep my gasp from escaping. I’ve never loved anything more than I love him in this moment. Still looking at his father, Baz squeezes my hand. I close my eyes, mostly to keep my tears from falling. But also to brace myself for the words that I know will come next.

And they do.

“Get out.”

But it isn’t Mr. Grimm who says them.

Slowly, slowly, I open my eyes and turn them to Daphne. She’s glaring. Not at me. Not at Baz. At her husband.

“Until you’re ready to apologise to Basilton and to Simon, I think you need to leave.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw is down on the floor when Malcolm Grimm stares at his wife for several uncomfortable seconds, then turns on his heel and stalks from the room.

For a couple of minutes, there’s silence. I think we’re all gawking at Daphne, even the children.

Baz is the one who breaks it. I can’t look away, but I hear him exhale slowly enough to suggest that he’s doing it so that he doesn’t cry. And then he whispers, “M-mother…”

That makes her turn to him. She extends her other arm--the one that isn’t wrapped around my shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”

Baz doesn’t hesitate. He steps past me and wraps both his arms around her waist. She drapes her arm around his shoulders the same way she’s doing to me, and he turns his face into her neck. I’m already taller than her, and Baz is an entire three inches taller than me, so I’m surprised that it works. She isn’t, though--maybe they do this a lot.

I can’t see Baz’s face because it’s blocked by Daphne’s hair, but I’m staring at him anyway. I don’t think I could look away even if I wanted to. He stays like that for a long time, just hugging his stepmum silently. He’s clearly trying to hide it, but I think he might be crying.

I should comfort him. I _want _to comfort him. I want to comfort him and thank Daphne and hug Mordelia and Audrey and Idina and Mathias and never let them go.

Because they stood up for me.

_Me._

Baz picked me over his father. He even used _those exact words--I choose Simon._ Part of it could’ve been because he knew Daphne and Mordelia were with him, but, well, that’s a miracle in its own right, isn’t it? That all these people who had no reason not to kill me _on_ _sight_ when we met just supported me in what was probably the scariest moment in my entire life. And they did it _because they love me._

If I still had my magic, I think I might go off. Or, not really. But it feels similar to the way magic used to spill out of me, the way my heart feels right now.

“Simon?”

One of Daphne’s hands is running through Baz’s hair, but with the other she rubs my back between my shoulder blades. I snap out of my thoughts and look at her. After everything, she looks concerned for _me_, and that’s the thing that makes everything snap.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I tuck my head down and hug her just like Baz is doing. “Thank you so much. I… you didn’t… I didn’t want to go.”

I can feel Daphne kiss the top of my hair. “Of course not, sweetheart. Don’t worry--we’re never going to make you go.”

I hear a choked-off sob in response, and I’m not sure if it comes from Baz or me.

And then there’s the sound of several chairs scraping back together. I can tell that it’s the children making their way over to us, but I don’t look up. At least, until I feel small hands tugging at the hem of my shirt. Slowly, I pull my head away from Daphne’s shoulder and look down. Audrey is standing in front of me. Her grey eyes are wide.

“Simon? Are you okay?”

I look past Daphne and see that Idina has wrapped both her arms around Baz’s waist and her head is hidden in the fabric over his stomach. In front of her, Mordelia’s chin is tilted up as she watches the door. Mathias is holding her hand and trying hard to look as intimidating as her. “I’m alright, little puff.”

“You’re crying,” Audrey points out.

I look back down at her and can’t help but smile. She pulls down on my shirt and her expression is reprimanding. Slowly, I let go of Daphne and crouch in front of her. “I’m alright.”

Audrey studies me for another second. And then she throws her entire body forward. I hold out one arm to catch her and drop the other to the floor so that we don’t fall. She’s only six, but her momentum is enough that we stagger back a step.

Her arms are around my neck and her head is down against my shoulder. She whispers, “I love you.”

I fall to my knees and wrap both my arms around her back. Whisper back, “I love you too, my little puff.”

I’ve said the words before. But now I really, really mean them.

It takes a long time before we all cry ourselves out, but eventually Mathias and the twins have to be put to bed. Mordelia’s tired enough that she follows not long after, and then Daphne disappears to talk to Mr. Grimm, I think. Baz and I are left alone for the first time since everything happened.

For a bit, we don’t do anything but sit on the sofa and stare at each other. We’re both still in shock, I think--Baz is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. And I probably look something similar. What happened… well, it was right mental, wasn’t it?

It’s been a while since we’ve last seen Daphne when he finally rises to his feet and offers a hand to me. I take it and stand, and then Baz turns and starts leading me down the hallway. We reach the stairs and I realise he’s heading to his room--I know Pitch Manor well enough by now to recognise the way.

As we climb, I squeeze his hand. He glances back at me over his shoulder, then half-smiles and squeezes my hand back. I’ve gotten better at reading Baz over the years, and this feels like a promise. To talk once we reach his bedroom. But also more.

As it turns out, we don’t get the chance.

In between the stairs and Baz’s bedroom is Mr. Grimm’s office. Right before we pass it, the door opens and he steps out. Baz and I instantly freeze in our tracks, and my grip on his hand gets much more urgent. Malcolm Grimm backed down before because Daphne made him, but here in this hallway, there’s no one but us.

Baz was still leading me, so he steps so he’s mostly in front of me as he says, “Father.”

But Mr. Grimm doesn’t look angry. Instead, he seems more… tired. And resigned, maybe. It shouldn’t, but that makes my heart skip a beat. Is he…?

But I don’t think I ever could’ve anticipated what happens next. Baz’s father closes the distance between us until he’s standing in front of his son. I can see Baz tense up and try to shield me even more, but Mr. Grimm doesn’t let him. Instead, he looks past Baz. To me.

“Basilton, Simon, I want to apologise,” he says.

I feel like someone’s hit me with **Dead in the air**. Which, coincidentally, is exactly how the air feels. Neither Baz nor I say anything.

After a moment, Mr. Grimm continues. He even looks between us as he speaks--not just at Baz. “The things I said earlier were out of line, and I am sorry. You were right, Simon. I know I haven’t been very accommodating to you, Basilton, and the plans that I and the Families had for your future shouldn’t have been more valuable than your happiness. I know, in the past, I have done nothing to support the parts of you that I didn’t approve of. And I’ll admit that _this_\--” he gestures between us “--doesn’t make sense to me. But I do love you, Basilton, and I know that my wife and my children already approve of Simon. I can promise that I shall attempt to be more supportive in the future, like a father is supposed to be.”

When Mr. Grimm finishes speaking, he stares at Baz. Which is good--I think I’m gaping at him. I hardly know Baz’s father, but I never could have imagined that he had it in him to say something so heartfelt and open. Judging by the expression on Baz’s face, he feels the same way.

For a long, long time, Baz doesn’t speak. Both his father and I are staring at him, waiting to see what his reaction will be. His grey eyes are blown wide with shock, but otherwise his face doesn’t show anything of what he’s thinking. Between us, though, he keeps squeezing and relaxing his grip on my hand. He’s panicking, I think.

Only, right as I’m about to do something--I don’t know what, that really was quite an apology--Baz speaks. His voice is remarkably composed. “Thank you, Father. Simon and I appreciate it very much.”

He doesn’t say any more, and I think Mr. Grimm is relieved. He reaches out and squeezes Baz’s shoulder, and then brushes past him and disappears ‘round the corner.

Both of us watch him go, and then our eyes immediately find each other. The red that was around Baz’s eyes when he was crying earlier had gone--vampire--but now they’re suspiciously shiny. I open my mouth to comment, but I think Baz senses it. Before I can say anything, his grip on my hand tightens and he’s pulling me down the hallway so suddenly that my arm feels like it’s going to pop out of its socket.

He doesn’t stop pulling until we’ve reached the door to his bedroom, and even then it’s only for long enough for him to twist the door open. Then, he’s yanking me through it and slamming it closed again. I hardly have time to turn around before he’s grabbing either side of my collar and looking at me like he’s going to attack.

And then, he shoves me up against the closed door and is kissing me as hard as he ever has. It’s fast and desperate, and I can feel his heart fluttering where his chest is pressed to mine. I know he’s replaying everything his father said to us, because I am too. I don’t think Baz ever expected an apology--I think both of us sat down to dinner secretly afraid that it would be the last time we were ever together and with his family.

My heart still feels like it’s going to explode, with how much I love him and Daphne and the littluns, so I wrap my arms around Baz’s neck, pull him even closer, and kiss him back as hard as I can.

Because now I never, ever have to let go.

I don’t think it takes either of us very long to start crying. I’m not sure who does first, but soon I can feel his chest heaving with suppressed sobs and taste salt in our kisses. He doesn’t let go, though, and neither do I. We don’t even move away from the door, even though I think we’re only a few seconds away from sliding down it to the ground.

We’re not snogging so much anymore as hugging with occasional kisses. Baz is resting his forehead against mine, and he keeps whispering, _“Simon”_ against my lips before he kisses me. It still makes my heart stop every time--hearing my sodding _first name_ from him.

I don’t know what time it is when I finally pull Baz away from the door and across the room to his bed. It feels like aeons have passed, and the only reason I make myself move is because he was resting so much of his weight against me that I felt like I was going to fall over. I have to keep my mouth very far away from his and tug at both his hands to get him to follow, and even still he stumbles his way after me until I push him down onto his bed.

Baz looks at me with shining grey eyes as I hold myself on all fours above him, and it reminds me of three Christmases ago, when we were still in Watford and trying to solve his mother’s murder and everything between us felt fragile and new. I remember that night, how I was so uncertain and yet it felt like everything in my life was finally slotting into place. I remember how I didn’t want to blink, because I was afraid that if I closed my eyes for even a second, everything we’d found would be lost again.

Baz is still crying, but his eyes have softened in a way that makes me think he’s remembering the same things as me. He reaches up and runs his hands through my hair and touches the moles on my cheeks. And then, he arches up and connects his lips to mine, like he did all those years ago.

I kiss him back. Of course I do. I kiss him back and slowly lower myself until I’m half on top of him and I can run my thumbs over his cheekbones and brush away his tears. He pulls away then, just enough to look at me.

“I love you, Simon Snow,” he whispers against my lips.

My heart twists, and I’m grinning, this time, when I kiss him. When we pull back, I hold his face in my hands and make a list of all the things in my life that’re better because I have him in it.

It’s a short list.

**No. 1--_Everything._**

“I love you too, Baz Pitch.”

He smiles like the sun and kisses me so hard that there’s no doubt that he knows I mean it.

I do.

I really, really do.


End file.
